Tales from the Citadel
by Random Equinox
Summary: Now that the Reaper War is over and the clone has been defeated, Shepard and his loyal crew can finally, finally enjoy some well-earned and long-overdue leave. A collection of one-shots based on Mass Effect 3: Citadel.
1. Shepard versus the First Date

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 1: Shepard versus the First Date**

"Are you sure I look acceptable?"

"You look amazing."

"You'd say that even if I wore a paper bag."

"Because you would look amazing."

"Right. I forgot: you're a man who joined the military. You don't have a sense of fashion."

"Look, I told you. Just don't freak out."

"Easy for you to say."

"I knew I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, you should have told me right away."

She might've had a point there.

You see, it had been almost a week since I had been discharged from Huerta Memorial Hospital. Maybe a few days since I almost lost my identity and my life, thanks to a disgruntled ex-Cerberus agent with an ego to rival TIMmy, a clone of yours truly with a major chip on his shoulder and a whole bunch of mercs with no idea what they were signing up for. I finally, _finally_, had a chance to sit back, relax and enjoy some long-overdue R&R. So when Ellie contacted me and suggested Miranda and I join her and Awesome for dinner, I said yes.

In hindsight, maybe I should have checked with Miranda beforehand. Not just for courtesy's sake—though I really should have gotten her assent before giving Ellie the okay. But for some reason, she was… really worried about her clothes. In fact, I was fairly certain that she was freaking out.

It didn't really make sense to me at first. This wasn't the first time she'd met Ellie and Awesome. In fact, they'd met during the Reaper War, when Ellie and Awesome were taking Oriana and her adopted family to the safest place possible. Maybe it was the prospect of making a good impression—even though she'd already gotten their seal of approval. Maybe she didn't want to make me look bad—as if that was possible.

Either way, she was getting rather antsy. "Miranda," I said patiently "you'll be fine. You've met them before. They're not the kind of people who think they're gods just because they have a medical degree under their belts."

"But they are part of your family in every sense but the biological one. And I want to make a good impression. It's just… they're normal people who lead normal lives. I don't really know how to be 'normal.'

"No one in their right mind would call my life 'normal', either," I reminded her. "Look, you'll be fine. Granted, Awesome sometimes has trouble relating to people who aren't as awesome as he is—which reminds me: you probably should call him Devon instead. But once you get used to him talking about doing a bajillion different things as if it was nothing, you'll be fine. As for Ellie, well, she's no slouch, but she's a bit more modest about her accomplishments. So you'll be fine there too."

"Well that's another thing: what if I forget and call Devon 'Captain Awesome'?"

"Blame it on me," I shrugged. "Ellie will assume it's my fault anyway."

* * *

Ellie and Awesome—sorry, Devon. Gotta remember that—had asked us out to dinner at the Silver Coast Casino, citing that the bar had a decent—if somewhat overpriced—menu and was close by to Anderson's apartment. I never got around to telling them that I had been there before. Nor did I mention anything about the attempt to steal my identity, the attempt on my life, the attempt to snuff out my squadmates, the potential attempts to kill anyone close to me and the fact that all this was orchestrated by the aforementioned disgruntled ex-Cerberus agent and a freaking clone of yours truly. First, they'd have a hard time believing me. Second, neither of them was cleared for that information—Hackett had dropped the 'need to know' hammer as soon as he found out about it. Third, Ellie would never get any sleep. And considering she was this close to giving birth, she needed all the sleep she could get.

Another reason for picking the Silver Coast Casino was that their dress code was relatively lax. At least, it was lax when it wasn't hosting a charity fundraiser. The staff might give you a few looks if you looked like you stumbled in off the street, but they didn't exactly require dress blues. So I just went with a plain white shirt, leather jacket and jeans. Miranda, after much dithering, had settled on a simple maroon dress that left her arms bare and stopped just below the knees.

"Chuck!" Ellie squealed when she saw me. She was wearing a loose floral blouse and well-worn khakis. The baby bump wasn't as large as I thought it would be, but it was enough to keep her from sprinting my way and pouncing on me as was her usual wont. Instead, she did her best to walk towards me without succumbing to a waddle and pulled me into a bear hug.

"Chuck. Miranda. Awesome to see you." Aw—er, Devon came over, somehow looking like a supermodel despite wearing nothing more than a plain grey sweater and black pants.

"Likewise," Miranda said, smoothly hiding any apprehension she was feeling. "How are you?"

"I could eat," Devon shrugged. "Ellie's probably famished. Eating for two and all that."

Ellie pulled an arm free to swat her husband. "That's a myth and you know it."

"But I'm sure you could eat, even if Chuck and Miranda weren't hungry."

"Oh, yeah, definitely. Let's go."

We made our way inside, gave our names and were seated within minutes. Thankfully, none of the staff recognized us, so we were able to just sit back and relax without dealing with awkward questions about crashing any fundraisers, hacking their security system or failing to report the murder of their boss.

"I was actually going to suggest sushi," Ellie confessed, "but they just shut down Ryuusei—it's my favourite sushi place—and I couldn't find another one that would pass muster."

"That's… a shame."

Ellie's eyes narrowed. "Chuck, you didn't…"

Damn it. She always did have a way of knowing when I was lying. Mind you, as we'd gotten older, I'd learned how to slip the occasional fib past her. Clearly I was out of practice. "I did. Some guys hit Ryuusei shortly after I was discharged from Huerta Memorial. I'm okay, obviously, but there was a lot of damage. Fell right through the fish tank."

"How did you manage that?" Ellie gasped.

"The floor was made of glass. It… broke."

"I too had hoped that he could have a break now that the war was over," Miranda intervened. "Sadly, your brother has a way of attracting trouble."

"No kidding."

"So, when are you due?" I asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

Ellie gave me a sharp look, but she couldn't resist answering that question. "Five weeks, give or take."

"And you're still working?" Miranda asked.

"Don't have to go on mat leave until the end of the month," she shrugged.

"Unless something comes up," Devon said firmly.

"I'm sure it won't."

"But if it does—"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. I've got lots of sick leave banked away."

"And you'll use it."

"If I think I need it. Which I don't."

"Yet."

I got the feeling this was a topic that had come up. Several times. "Any morning sickness?" I asked.

"Not really," Ellie replied, grateful for the change of topic. "Mild nausea at best, but nothing serious. I've been lucky, really."

"And you still don't know the gender?" Miranda asked.

Devon fielded that one. "Nope. Both of us wanted to know, actually, but our colleagues and friends persuaded us that it would be nice to keep it a surprise. I mean, we'll have lots of surprises once the baby arrives, but at least we'll know this'll be a good one."

"Fair enough," I nodded.

The waiter picked that moment to approach us. Devon and I ordered beers. Miranda had a glass of wine. Ellie picked some fruity drink that was absolutely, positively free of alcohol.

"So," Ellie said once the waiter departed, "Miranda and I talked a few times while you were in PT, Chuck. I kinda know how you two met—sorry, Miranda, but I know there's more to the story than 'Cerberus helped rescue Shepard and assisted with his recovery'. Especially considering he was missing for two years."

"You may not be entirely wrong there," Miranda said vaguely.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, but let it go. "I know the two of you were working to investigate that rash of abductions amongst human colonies in the Terminus Systems. Obviously, you also worked together during the Reaper War. And I know more or less when you realized you had feelings for each other. But I do have questions. For instance, how was your first date like?"

Miranda and I looked at each other. "Um…" I managed.

"You see…" Miranda tried.

Ellie's eyes narrowed. "You _have _been on a date. Right?"

"Do work dates count?"

"Work dates involving maintenance reports and calibrations?"

"Over jasmine tea and a rotating assortment of sweets?"

"Oh, Chuck. Miranda. Really?"

I kinda felt defensive; the way Ellie looked so disappointed in the two of us. "Hey, you'd be surprised how emotionally engaging it was to sift through reports together without being distracted by gunfire. Sitting alone, just the two of us, hitting the 'Send' key in unison. It's really romantic."

Now Ellie really looked disappointed. Or disgusted. Miranda gave me a look that clearly said 'Is that the best you can do?' And Devon just looked confused. I guess I couldn't blame them. "Well, there was the last time we went to Illium," I tried. "Miranda and I spent some time alone, just the two of us."

"We weren't alone," Miranda corrected me. "A batarian mercenary 'encouraged' us to intend what could best be described as a business lunch in a hole-in-the-wall. Hardly what I'd call the stuff of first dates."

"Then the two of you should make up for lost time," Ellie decided. "You're going to have your first date."

"Now?" I blinked. "Tonight?"

"Exactly. In three… two… one…"

Miranda turned to me and favoured me with a dazzling smile. "So, you come here often?"

"Really?" I balked. "Our first date—well, our second first date—and you're going with that line?"

The look Miranda gave me could best be described as 'Humour me, you big dumb idiot.' This after she ratted me out on the Illium encounter with Cathka. Fine. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Got it. Yes. Yeah. Oh, I come here often. Good place to blow off steam. Maybe hit the quasar machines if I'm feeling lucky. Though I think tonight, I'll try my luck right here."

"Does that work with all the girls?"

"Wouldn't know," I said. "Never tried it before tonight."

"Figured as much. You're not exactly a tough read."

Oh… kay… this wasn't how I pictured this date. Mind you, I hadn't really given the hypothetical scenario of a first date much thought, much less a hypothetical first date in front of my sister and her husband. Even so, this was… different. "I might surprise you," I managed.

"Doubt it," she shrugged.

"Try me."

We had to pause as the waiter came with our drinks. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.

"A few more minutes," Ellie said hurriedly, shooing him away.

Miranda waited until the waiter left before delivering her assessment. "All right. You're an N7. Means you're Alliance. But not just Alliance: you're Special Forces. You've done things. Seen things. All very important. Heroic, even. That's what everyone sees: the symbol. Alliance, N7, hush-hush, hero. But deep down, you want to be seen as the guy who will do what needs to be done, even if it means going above and beyond what he was ordered to do. You want to be known as the guy who will stop and listen to anyone, no matter who they are or where they come from. You want to be known as the guy who's not afraid to bend or break the rules when they're petty and when to stand your ground when it really matters."

There was a stunned silence. I had a feeling this wasn't the sort of topic that came up during most first dates. At least, not for people who had normal lives.

"You get all that from a leather jacket and a logo?" I said at last.

"Quick study," Miranda said, taking a casual sip.

"All right," I nodded. "You know what I think?"

"Tell me."

"You look amazing. And gorgeous. Which for most people would be enough. But you're not 'most people.' You need to know that you look perfect. That your dress is perfect. Your hair is perfect. That you know the perfect thing to say or not say at any given situation. Oh you hide it well, beneath that dazzling smile and charm school manners. But the fact is, you're tired. Tired of keeping up the façade all day and all night. Tired of being surrounded by people who only see the perfection and the credits. Tired of people who talk to you and work with you because of who you know, what you can do or what you look like. Deep down, you're looking for someone who can pierce that carefully maintained façade and see your perfections and imperfections. Someone who accepts your secret wants and desires, your hidden shortcomings and flaws. Someone who sees the real you."

Another moment of silence followed, though Miranda soon put an end to that. "You might be a quick study yourself," she said. "Miranda Lawson."

"Chuck Shepard."

…

…

"Um…"

"Uh…"

"Right," I frowned. "We covered small talk, insightful revelations and introductions. So… back to small talk?"

Miranda paused for a moment before suddenly standing up. "I've got a better idea. Come on."

A sudden shiver of dread rippled down my spine and settled in the pit of my stomach. "What are you doing?"

"Do you dance?"

Only then did I realize the background music had shifted to a slightly synthesized… tango? Aw, crap. "Devon gave me a crash course one afternoon."

"Good enough."

"Did I mention 'crash'? Or the fact that he only taught me the lady's part?" Thank you, Captain Awesome, I thought to myself.

"It'll be fun," Miranda declared, airily dismissing my concerns, snatching my hand and hauling me to my feet.

Miranda. Being spontaneous. Doing things for fun. Dear God, what have I done? I looked over at the table, desperately seeking a reprieve. Devon was happy to sit back and enjoy the show, oblivious to the fact that I was about to make a complete idiot of myself. Ellie looked positively delighted at this development, giving me two enthusiastic thumbs up.

"Hang on a sec," I tried one last time. "Wait. Wait. No. Oh no. No-no-no-no-no!"

I was too late. Miranda dragged me to a clear space in the bar. And then we started dancing. Well, Miranda started dancing. I started shuffled my feet in a desperate attempt to keep up. "You know I have no clue what I'm doing, right?" I hissed.

"Just follow my lead. You'll be fine."

"Promises, promises," I grumbled.

To her credit, Miranda had already placed my hands in what I could only presume were the right positions. Quietly, without making it obvious, she kept up a steady stream of instructions. 'Forward, two, three, four', 'back, two, three, four,' that kind of thing. She even had me spin her around, believe it or not.

I think we got everyone's attention when she told me to take a step back and pause—probably because she used the opportunity to raise her leg, knee bent, in a very dramatic and sexy pose. Again, she knew what she was doing. Me, well, I hadn't done this much faking it and improv since Elysium.

We went back to dancing. At some point, I realized that my body seemed to have subconsciously figured out how to dance. Miranda had slowed her directions from a never-ending litany to the occasional direction. And, somehow, I think I was starting to relax. Maybe I wouldn't make a complete idiot of myself after all.

"Now you're getting it," Miranda approved, after we went through a series of steps that didn't end with bruised toes.

I spun her out again. Miranda flowed away from me and came to a stop… right in front of James. Where did he come from? All I knew was that he was here now—and definitely liked what he saw, judging by the noise of approval he made. He made a noise of approval. I brought her back close and gave him a mock glare. He responded with a cheeky grin.

Miranda and I continued dancing around. On some level, I was aware that everyone—customers and staff alike—had stopped what they were doing to watch us. Two things surprised me about the whole thing.

First, I was still keeping up with Miranda. I mean, we'd learned how to work well on the Normandy—recruiting a band of misfits, fending off Cerberus's repeated efforts to screw us over, facing a suicide mission and dealing with a goddamn Reaper War had a way of bringing people together. Yes, we'd learned how to operate effectively on the battlefield. And yes, we'd occasionally found ourselves in mental sync with each other. But seeing that translate to the dance floor was quite surprising. All credit went to Miranda, I decided, for putting up with my two left feet.

Second, no one was recording the dance. At least, no one was making an obvious effort. Maybe they were too dazzled by Miranda's dancing prowess to remember their collective social media obsession. Honestly, I was fine with that, even if it meant my online reputation of being a horribly uncoordinated dancer who could butcher the 'funky chicken' was still intact.

As the music signalled that it was coming to an end, I decided this was the best first date I'd ever had. At least, that's the official story I would go with—ignoring the fact that I could count the number of dates I'd ever had on one hand.

The music soared to a glorious end. The crowd burst into applause. My ears picked up James, who was positively howling his approval. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ellie and Devon beaming.

But my main focus was the woman in my arms. I pulled her up, still intent on doing the whole first date thing. "Miranda," I said, "clearly you're a woman of many talents."

She leaned towards me, a twinkle in her eye. "Oh, Shepard," she whispered in my ear, "you have _no _idea."


	2. Shepard versus the Claw

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 2: Shepard versus the Claw**

_Author's Note: this chapter is in memory of Robin Sachs, the voice actor of Zaeed Massani, who passed away in 2013, just a couple days from his birthday. RIP, Mr. Sachs._

* * *

One thing I never got to do during the Reaper War—well, one of the many things, I should say—was read the news. I was usually too busy trying to prep for yet another fight, make sense of the latest tactical data from the front lines, shoot my way through another seemingly endless horde of hostiles, make sure intel was received and sent in a timely manner, patch myself and my squad up for the next fight, and try not to succumb to despair after the weekly casualty reports came in or the latest mission went FUBAR. But now I had a chance to catch up on current events.

In hindsight, ignorance may have been bliss. If it wasn't vapid fluff pieces about the virtues of irradiating aloe vera with element zero—the next big panacea that supposedly would make everything better—it was the latest half-cocked scheme from a certain asari matriarch with more influence than sense. Apparently Donalia T'Dura wanted to set up a minefield around the Parnitha system's mass relay—that would be the system where the asari homeworld was located—and any relay connecting to it. According to her, that would be the best way, the greatest way and the most excellent way to keep ignorant savages—basically anyone who wasn't asari—from bringing their problems to Thessia. It was also her opinion that if the asari had done that in the first place, the Reapers would never have set foot on Thessia in the first place. Never mind that such a rationale was appallingly xenophobic and isolationist. Or the fact that Thessia was not self-sufficient enough to survive being cut off from the rest of the galaxy. Or the fact that the asari weren't the only ones with problems. Or the fact that if the Reapers could sail through entire fleets with nary a scratch, they probably wouldn't blink at a minefield. Ultimately, the asari matriarchs voted against her proposal—mainly because the majority had enough sense to see that there was no way they could fund such a ridiculous scheme. Sadly, it was only a slim majority.

Let down and disgusted with the news, I decided to see if anyone was free to get together. Glyph had mentioned that various crew members were interested in spending time with me, now that I was finally enjoying my much-deserved and long-overdue R&R. I sat down by my computer and logged into my e-mail account… where I discovered that the only things certain in life were death, taxes and spam.

Okay. Option three: Glyph had also told me that Silversun Strip was filled with various businesses and venues. Maybe it was time I took a stroll and see what it had to offer.

What first struck me was how many people there were here. Tons of people, of every species, age and gender—all milling about. Some were on business, some were on pleasure. Some, sadly, were probably killing time because they were refugees. I was about to check out the food court when I heard a familiar sound.

It had been ages since I last stepped foot in an arcade. Morgan and I used to waste way too many hours and far too many credits on the plethora of games there. And then we'd inevitably be chased down by our parents—or Ellie—to come back and do our homework. Ah, the time we spent playing N7 Code of Honor, Shattered Eezo, Relay Defence... the list went on and on.

I followed the sounds to Castle Arcade. It looked like every other arcade I'd frequented as a kid: couple floors filled with booths and tables, neon lights everywhere and a cacophony of customers chatting and games blaring away. I passed a few people rolling their eyes at some recommended weapon guides that seemed geared towards newbies—though I wasn't sure whether they were talking about arcade games or real life. For a moment, I was tempted to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Then I heard another familiar sound. Well, voice. "You're mine, you bastard." There was a pause, followed by "Goddamn it!"

Turning around, I followed the cursing and found Zaeed Massani—co-founder of the Blue Suns, former squadmate, supposedly retired bounty hunter and mercenary—hunched over… a… claw machine?

And here I thought I'd seen everything. "Zaeed?"

"Over here, Shepard. This thing is fucking impossible."

Knowing Zaeed, there was bound to be a story behind it all. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for someone," he growled. "Had to pass the time. Then I bumped into this kid. Sniveling brat. Spending all his credits, crying."

"So you thought you'd get a prize for him," I said. "That was nice of you." Uncharacteristic, but nice.

"He asked," he shrugged, putting in another couple credits and trying again. "Looked simple enough—goddamn it!"

Needless to say, Zaeed didn't get a prize. I looked around to see how the kid was doing. And looked some more. There were loads of kids around here, but none of them seemed to be close enough to the claw machine. Though a couple seemed quite impressed by Zaeed's language. "Where's the kid?" I asked.

"What do I care?" came the retort.

Hmm. Something told me this wasn't about making the kid feel better anymore.

Zaeed patted his pockets before turning to me. "Got any credits, Shepard?"

Uh oh. "Isn't there something better we could go do?" I suggested.

"What could possibly be more important than Zaeed Massani not getting bested by some fucking kids' game?" By the time he finished that—presumably rhetorical—question, he was almost quivering in frustration.

Right. Come on, Shepard. Where were your priorities? "You really want one of those plushy toys?"

"Goddamn right, I do."

"Okay, then."

"Credits."

Shaking my head, I motioned him to step aside. "Here. Let me."

It had been a while, but apparently I hadn't lost the touch. The claw—if you can call a disk attached to a glowing blue cord a claw—reached down, snagged a glowing orange sphere, carried the sphere over and dropped it in the slot. Looked like I won a black vorcha with neon yellow stripes. "Beginner's luck," I shrugged.

Zaeed began examining the side of the machine. "It's obviously rigged somehow."

The hell? I glanced down at my prize in confusion. "But I just—never mind," I sighed, realizing that Zaeed was a little too obsessed to be thinking clearly.

He confirmed my suspicion with his next declaration: "I am going to hunt down the shit-for-brains 'inventor' of this crooked game and pull his inspiration out through his arse-hole. Probably some smart-arse salarian bastard."

"Aren't there other people who are more deserving of your wrath?" I asked.

"I've got plenty to spare. Trust me."

Oh, I did. I definitely did.

"I'm going back in," Zaeed decided. "Credits."

"Why don't you just take this music in—?"

"Shepard. Credits. Now."

Believe it or not, I wasn't loaded with credits. Medical insurance and military benefits gave a lot less than you would think—apparently everyone was putting in claims these days—and I hadn't had many opportunities to scrounge for loot. Besides, it wasn't like people were falling over themselves to toss a credit to their Spectre.

Still, I handed over a few credits. Because I'm a sucker that way.

I watched as the claw jerked to life, moved forward and slowed down. I held my breath as the claw went down for what was probably the umpteenth time. If he missed again…

Much to my relief, he succeeded. "All right," he grinned. "About goddamn time."

Amen to that.

He grabbed the prize and turned around. Seeing a nearby asari, he tossed it to her. "Here you go, sweetheart."

The asari looked blankly at the plush volus in her hands. I shrugged at her before hurrying to catch up with him. "Okay, Zaeed. Where to?"

"How should I know? Whaddya feel like? Apollo's? Casino? More claw?"

Oh boy. Not this again. "Zaeed, will another victory ever match the one you just experienced?"

"You're right," he conceded, much to my relief. "Guess you've been around that block a few times."

"A few too many," I admitted ruefully. "And not by choice. So why don't you leave the claw machine alone, now that you've finally beaten it, and tell me what the hell you're doing here?"

"Sure," he shrugged. "I know a place where we can talk. Come on. You're buying."

"Yes I am," I sighed, shaking my head.

* * *

Zaeed led me out of the Silversun Strip. As we walked, the lights either grew dimmer or were increasingly burnt out or broken. The crowds thinned out to a handful of loiterers, prostitutes and ne'er-do-wells, all with ragged faces and hard eyes. The sounds around me died down to an unsettling silence. Eventually, we came to a ratty little bar. The crude sign on the front said it was called Khar'shan's Edge. There was a list of lines, which I guessed were various ways to say 'Enter at your own risk'. We decided to take a risk.

The interior wasn't much better. Squinting through the dim light, I saw a random assortment of chairs, stools and tables in the centre of the room and a series of booths along the back wall. The few customers there were either passed out or doing their damndest to end up that way. The surly, scarred batarian behind the bar glared at us before turning his attention back to the glassware he was attempting to clean.

"You take me to the nicest places, Zaeed," I said sarcastically. "First Zorya, now here."

"Funny you should mention Zorya."

"Oh?"

"In a minute. Oy, Morex! Morex, you ugly bastard! Two beers. Now."

Morex—who turned out to be the surly, scarred batarian bartender—sneered at Zaeed, but fished out two bottles. After paying for the beer, we sat down in one of the booths. "Now," I said after we clinked bottles and took a swig, "spill. Why are you here and what does it have to do with Zorya? Last I heard, you were gonna retire."

"I did. Found a nice shack. Bit out of the way, but you can't beat tropical climates, lots of booze within a kilometre or so and all the peace and quiet you could ask for. Just me and Jessie."

Jessie—right. His assault rifle. "So? What happened?"

"You know that feeling in your gut that tells you something's wrong, even when everything else says you're fine?"

"All too well," I said. "You had one of those, I take it?"

"Yep. Had this feeling that I was being watched. Couldn't prove it. So I started stockpiling. Just in case, right? Even got myself an old LOKI mech, dressed it up in an old hardsuit and put it in my bed."

"Feeling lonely, are you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not like that, you sick bastard! I slept in the basement."

"You're such a gentleman," I said. "And how long did this go on?"

"Couple weeks, maybe. Started to think I was going mad. Was almost a relief when they finally showed up one night and shot up my shack."

"They what?" I blurted out.

"Yeah. Can't really blame them. Poor sods probably wanted some payback after the first of them stumbled into my trip mines."

"You mined your lawn?" I asked before realizing I shouldn't have been surprised. This was Zaeed, after all.

"'Course I did. Didn't wanna worry 'bout the grass. Who has time to mow the damn thing? Not to mention the weeds. Gravel's the way to go. Plus, it looks nice. Artistic, even. Anyway, so a couple of the bastards walked right into my trip mines. Bodies and limbs went flying. Must've pissed the rest off. Next thing I know, bullets are flying. They just lined up there, right on my lawn, shooting up my shack bold as brass. Bloody amateurs. Didn't even have the decency to shoot me in the face. Dunno how many clips they wasted spraying down the front wall. But I could tell when they finally came in—stomping all over the place, didn't even try to be quiet."

"If they shot your home to hell, being quiet wouldn't have been high on their priority list," I pointed out.

"Doesn't matter. Shows no discipline. Wouldn't have stood for that in my day. Now where was I? Right: blokes stomping around. Wasn't long before I heard another round of gunfire, followed by a big explosion. Figured they found the mech in my bedroom, pumped it full of lead and pulled off the blankets to verify the kill—which set off the anti-personnel mine I welded onto the mech."

Somehow, I had a feeling that home insurance would not cover this. Not at all.

"Then I heard my furniture being tossed over. Wasn't long before they found the door to the basement. They went down the stairs, single file. That's when I knew they were mercs."

And that's when the reference to Zorya made sense. "Blue Suns?"

"Got it in one. At least they had the sense to leave a rear guard. Didn't do him any good when I snuck up behind him and snapped his neck, mind you. Then I went after the next guy. Stabbed him with my knife, right through his carotid and windpipe. Plain metal alloy knife, mind you. None of that flashy omni-blade crap. Didn't wanna light up the room and give me away."

Right. Omni-blades usually had warning lights or visible energy fields highlighting the blade so the user didn't cut himself or herself by accident. Zaeed might have been retired, but he hadn't lost his edge—no pun intended.

"At that point, I decided it was time to get the party going. Started off by tossing an inferno grenade at the nearest pair of mercs like a bowling ball. Batarians, both of them. You should've seen it when the grenade blew. Lit the bastards up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Well, two trees.

"Then I pulled out Jessie and went to work. Snuck up on the closest merc—pimply-faced human—and took him out. Only took a few shots—idiot didn't have his shields turned on. That drew another merc—turian—who did have his shields up. So I fired a few bursts and gave him a good pummelling before snapping his scrawny lil' neck. Another batarian came on the scene. He fired. He missed. I crouched down and emptied the rest of my clip. Reloaded.

"By that point, the rest of them were firing back. I could tell they were trying to pin me down. So I blew out the lights. Set 'em up to go off like a flashbang. I tell you, Shepard, the cries of all those mercs as they went blind were music to my ears. Almost as beautiful as mowing them down with Jessie.

"But they weren't done yet. This one guy, batarian, came towards me. Staggering all the way. Didn't matter how many shots I put in him. Finally, I rammed him into the wall. Stuck Jessie's muzzle right between his eyes—all four of them—and pulled the trigger.

"Another turian merc came around the corner. No time to load Jessie. So I put her down, grabbed a shotgun from the merc whose brains I just sprayed all over the wall and opened fire. Boom. Boom. Boom. Fucker's still standing. Grade-A shields. Clearly the boss. So I pop out one of those fancy-schmancy omni-blades—way past the point where I'm being sneaky—and gut the bastard."

I mentally did a tally. "So that's, what, fifteen, sixteen mercs?"

"Something like that. There were more outside, but I'll get to that in a sec. So I just stabbed the last guy, right? Stepped aside before his guts spilled out over my boots. Then I started interrogating the guy. Who hired you, I asked. Tell me now and I'll make it quick. Merc kept his mouth shut. Even after I gave him a good kick or two. Had to admire that. So I slit his throat."

"After that, I did a Shepard."

"Huh?"

"I looted their bodies. Thermal clips, creds, the omni-tool from that last turian. That kinda thing."

He 'did a Shepard'. I felt so proud.

"After patting all the corpses down, I picked up Jessie and gave her another thermal clip. By that point, I could hear footsteps again. Guess the rest of the mercs got bored and wanted to see how their buddies were doing. Well, I wasn't gonna ambush them this time. So I grabbed my go bag. Scuttled the house—"

"You—," I broke off and shook my head. "Of course you did."

"Well, yeah. Rigged it with explosives a while back. All I had to do was go through the escape tunnel I dug way back when I first bought the place, get to a safe distance and flip the switch. You should have seen it, Shepard. Damn thing went up like the Fourth of July!"

Jesus. "And then what?"

"Well, I set up camp and started digging through the loot. Mainly interested in the boss's omni-tool. Figured if anyone knew who the client was, it'd be him. Lucky for me, he didn't have much in the way of encryption. Bottom line: I got a name. And I found out the broad's coming to the Citadel. So I figured I'd haul arse here and wait for her to show up."

"Right," I nodded. "Makes sense. Um… when is she coming?"

"Dunno. Could be a while."

"More importantly: what are you going to do once she gets here?"

No sooner had the words left my mouth than I remembered how much Zaeed liked to 'wax goddamn nostalgic.' Too late, I realized.

"Funny you should ask. About ten years ago, I was hired to hunt down this guy. One of those guys who made his fortune flipping houses. Turned out he also had a bad gambling habit. Racked up a ton of debts to the vorcha mafia before cleaning out his savings and going on the run. The wife didn't know anything—she was shocked and heartbroken to be left behind. Didn't take long to find out he had himself a mistress. Younger. Prettier. I tracked her down. Started asking her questions. Bitch claimed she didn't know anything, but I could tell she was lying through her teeth. Her beady little eyes kept looking at the closet.

"So I kicked down the door. Sure enough, bastard was sitting there with his stolen credits. He actually had a goddamned bag full of credits, I shit you not. Blood trickling down from where the door broke his nose. I was just about to cuff him when the mistress hit me. Swung a goddamned bat like it was a game of cricket. Felt like a krogan tried to jump me. That's when the gambler tried to make a run for it. Had to cap him in the knee so he wouldn't get too far while I dealt with his girl. Feisty bitch. Nothing a good solid punch couldn't solve, mind you.

"After that, it was just a matter of tracking the man down—not too hard when he was crawling on his hands and knees—cuff him and haul his ass back to the mafia."

"Okay," I said slowly. "Let me see if I get this straight. Your plan is to wait until this woman arrives and ask her what she knows. If that fails, you'll start hitting her or shooting her until she talks."

"Pretty much. Jessie's pretty persuasive, you know."

Why was I not surprised? This was Zaeed, after all. If he could survive getting shot in the face, a suicide mission against the Collectors and the Reaper War, of course he could handle a couple squads worth of mercs without batting an eye. Whoever tried to take him out was in for a world of hurt.

"Well, best of luck," I finally said.

"I'll drink to that."

We clinked glasses. "Here's to you, Zaeed," I toasted. "You magnificent bastard!"


	3. Shepard versus the Human Ritual

_Author's Note: Shout out to __Chris Dee__ for helping me brainstorm gift ideas for this chapter_

* * *

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 3: Shepard versus the Human Ritual**

One thing I never got to do during the Reaper War—well, one of the many things, I should say—was read the news. I was usually too busy trying to prep for yet another fight, analyze the latest intel, survive another horde of hostiles, patch myself up after the last fight, and do my best not to succumb to despair after the weekly casualty reports. But now I had a chance to catch up on current events.

Sadly, it was pretty depressing. Vapid stories about celebrities making fools of themselves after being drunk or stoned. Irresponsible news outlets riling up crowds with exaggerations, misinformation and flat-out lies. And volus politicians having trouble figuring out their priorities.

I should probably explain the latter.

Apparently, the volus president was busy trying to get a seat on the Citadel Council. This had been a longstanding goal, which is saying something considering that they were the third race to establish an embassy to the Citadel after the asari and salarians. No one could doubt they had a major impact on the galaxy from an economic perspective—they did author the Unified Banking Act, thus establishing the credit as the standard currency of interstellar trade in the Milky Way after all.

However, they had never been offered a seat on the Council for two reasons. First, Council races had to provide some extraordinary service to the Citadel. The turians did when they helped quell the Krogan Rebellions—albeit through military might and the deployment of the genophage. Humanity did when we helped save the Council during the Battle of the Citadel. The volus… helped maintain the galactic economy. That didn't count. The second reason was that Council races had to provide fleets, resources and economic aid in case of disaster. The volus were unable to do so. In fact, their military was so weak; they had to become a client race of the turians. It was a miracle they were able to provide a bombing fleet during the Reaper War.

Despite those major factors, President Jutin Tru persisted in his quixotic quest. He'd had an ally when Ambassador Din Korlack was serving on the Citadel, but that was before Korlack was caught selling secrets to Cerberus. So now Tru had to go it alone. He'd spent the last couple weeks touring the galaxy, trying to drum up support. Which might have been fine if two of the major volus shipping cartels hadn't gone on strike. For some reason, the majority of citizens felt Tru should be spending his time fixing a planetwide crisis with potentially galactic repercussions, not sauntering off on some personal vanity project.

So perhaps I can be forgiven for opening my inbox and looking for a reprieve from current events—which I eventually found after wading through page after page of spam:

_From: EDI_

_Subject: Shore Leave Activities_

_Shepard,_

_As part of my education, I think it would be appropriate if you and I participated in rituals found in all human cultures. Reply and we can meet at Anderson's apartment._

_EDI_

Okay. That was a bit vague. I was human—cybernetics notwithstanding—but my rituals tended to indulging my restless wandering, harassing of strangers, shooting hostile entities, setting people on fire and looting everything that wasn't nailed down. Human rituals in terms of what normal people did could mean, well, anything.

So I decided to partake in another one of my rituals—indulging my insatiable curiosity—and told her my schedule was wide open. EDI replied back immediately to say she would arrive at 1400.

True to her word, EDI showed up at 1400. Not 1359, not 1401. 1400. I wasn't surprised.

"Shepard," she said, "I thought we could experience an afternoon of acquiring material possessions for our associates."

So that was what she meant by 'rituals found in all human cultures'. A bit of an exaggeration, considering some human cultures followed that ritual a bit more religiously—some might say excessively—than others, but I wasn't about to quibble. "Shopping? I guess we could. Did you have a place in mind?"

"Physical proximity is unnecessary. The extranet provides a greater variety of services while retaining entertainment value."

Not according to my sister. She always maintained you had to go to the shops to support the owners and staff. You had to see the goods in person—and, in the case of clothing, try them on. Mind you, I think she just wanted to drag me along so I could carry all the crap she bought. Which was why I did my best to find excuses to get out of those excursions as I grew older and—supposedly—wiser.

Then again, EDI wasn't Ellie. Efficiency was more important than getting a free pack mule. "Sure," I shrugged. I went to the kitchen to grab the glass of water I was drinking when EDI rang the doorbell. "Why not?"

"Excellent," EDI smiled. "Jeff has lent me his credit chit on the condition that I enjoy myself and, quote, 'live it up like a girly girl'."

I smiled at the way EDI emphasized her last words with air quotes. "That was nice of Joker. You don't have money of your own?"

"I am not formally employed. I have no legal standing in Citadel space. I could turn to crime, but that would look bad on a resume."

Oh. Right. Crap. I forgot that AIs were still considered illegal in Citadel space. Never mind that EDI had proven herself time and time again during the Reaper War. Never mind that an entire _race _of AIs had played a pivotal role in defeating the Reapers, had made peace with the quarians and were helping their creators resettle their homeworld. Sadly, history showed that gratitude was short-lived while prejudices went on and on. And batarians weren't the only ones who couldn't shake off a bad reputation. AIs were still regarded as soulless metal harbingers of Skynet or some such thing. EDI, unfortunately, was the latest casualty.

"Sorry about that," I sighed. "We'll get you your own funds sometime. But today—what's first?"

"I believe Jeff would be surprised and pleased if I got him a gift. What would you recommend?"

After all the questions we had about philosophy, psychology and other deep matters, this was an easy one. "Start with something both of you can enjoy," I suggested. "What do you do together?"

"We interact most closely when we are flying," EDI said after a moment's thought.

That was true. Joker had no one to talk to when he was in the cockpit _except _EDI. Aside from the times when I dropped by, of course.

"It occurs to me that he does not have a skycar for travelling around the Presidium." She pulled out a datapad and did a quick search. The 2187 Blackout has a top speed of 650 kilometres per hour, making it the most powerful sports skycar in its class."

"That sounds like it'll get Joker's blood pumping," I grinned.

"Five-year warranty," EDI read aloud. "Replacement parts. All sales are final—"

The grin slid off my face as I heard what she said. "No, wait!" I cried out, snatching the datapad out of her hands.

EDI looked at me in confusion. "I fail to see what is wrong."

Looking at the price tag of 749,999 credits, I tried not to shudder. "When you buy someone a present, it's best not to bankrupt them," I replied. "Between Joker's salary and the amount of time he spends on the Citadel, a rental may be a better option."

"I see. Perhaps for a day or weekend, then."

"That's more like it," I said, leaning against the kitchen counter in relief. "Who's next?"

"You are. Close your eyes."

Okay. I decided to play along.

When I opened my eyes, I saw EDI holding… an open velvet box… with a ring inside. "Uh… are we getting married?" I asked in confusion.

To my utter relief, EDI shook her head. "No. There is a jeweler on the Citadel who produces these. They're made from metals from each Council homeworld. Each metal compounds with the last, making the ring stronger. He calls them victory rings. Due to material shortages, only a few exist."

Oh. Oh thank God. I was so thankful that EDI was _not _proposing to me. That would be a really awkward conversation to have with Miranda. Or Joker. "Love the symbolism, EDI," I said.

"Are you sure this was an appropriate gift?" she wanted to know.

"It's the thought that counts, and you had a good one," I replied. "A really good one."

"I have heard that expression," EDI said. "That's why I recorded a resonance map of my quantum bit arrays when I had the idea. If you read my extensive log files and extrapolate from my nitrogen-vacancy centres, you can visualize the thought precisely."

If she had said that a few years ago, I might've been fooled. Now? "That's a long way for a joke, EDI."

"Did I have you for a few seconds there?"

"Not even close," I snorted. "Who's next?"

"I was thinking of something for Liara. I was debating whether to find something suitable to her current career as an information broker or her past occupation as an archaeologist."

"Archaeologist," I said firmly. "Something to remind her both of the good ol' days and how far she's come. Something low-tech. Like… a book."

"A book."

"Yeah! A book. With a cover—hard or soft—and pages. Real, paper pages!"

EDI gave me a strange look, but dutifully did a search. "There is a book about the rise and fall of a human civilization known as the Aztecs. It appears to have earned glowing reviews from the majority of critics and readers alike."

"Done!" I declared. "Who's next?"

"Wrex?"

"Good call," I nodded. "He had to make an emergency trip back to Tuchanka. Apparently some of the clans have gotten a little bored now that there aren't any Reapers to kill. If he doesn't settle things between them, he could have another civil war on his hands. And you know some of that will spill over to the rest of the galaxy. I'm sure he could use some cheering up after that. Any thoughts?"

"I have observed that he takes pleasure in matters involving violence and combat," EDI replied. "But that seems too easy. Perhaps a set of steak knives? There is a store on the Citadel that specializes in custom culinary tools and utensils. I've already made some inquiries and a polite human named 'Bob' assures me that he can craft a set of knives suitable for dealing with Tuchanka wildlife—everything from pyjaks to thresher maws."

"Perfect!" I crowed. "I think you're getting the hang of this. Let's keep going!"

"Have you considered a suitable gift for Miranda?"

Ooh. Huh. Yeah. What to get Miranda? What would she want? Well… what did she do for… fun… um… okay, what interests did she have? Aside from… bringing me back from the dead and paperwork and fighting the Reapers and… uh… it was entirely possible that I was a pretty clueless boyfriend. Either that, or Miranda didn't have a ton of interests outside of work. I tried to think of something Miranda would like, but not something she would love—I didn't want EDI to upstage me, after all. "Can you see what shops on the citadel sell tea? Jasmine tea leaves, to be exact?"

"One moment," EDI replied. "The specificity of your request suggests she would appreciate this gift idea."

"Yeah, I have a good feeling about this," I nodded.

It took a minute, but EDI found a suitable vendor and placed the order. I noted the price and added it to the other purchases. This was all fun, but I was starting to think I should chip in before EDI's shopping spree left Joker broke.

James and Kaidan were fairly easy purchases. EDI had received a requisition for a few pieces of gym equipment to replace the items that were damaged during our efforts to retake the Normandy from Brooks, my clone and their hired stooges. As for Kaidan, we got him a cedar box of smoked sockeye salmon. That's real cedar wood and real smoked sockeye salmon—in an age when both were in short supply.

"That brings us to Garrus," EDI said. "My data on his interests skews heavily towards weapons and calibrations."

I rolled my eyes. "Naturally."

"However, I believe your friendship with him would offer greater insights into a suitable gift."

She had a point. And there were a few things that came to mind. But one idea just wouldn't go away. Well, two ideas wouldn't go away, but buying a genuine M-92 Mantis sniper rifle and bronzing the damn thing would be a criminal waste of a good weapon. So I went with my other idea: "I read somewhere about celebratory plaques that would generate a hologram when activated. Sometimes even a short vid-clip."

"Searching… yes, there are many shops that would carry such an item."

"See if any of them would be willing to do a custom job. I'm thinking an empty milk bottle flying through the air before suddenly exploding. And the inscription will read 'King of the Bottle Shooters'."

EDI looked at me blankly.

"Trust me: Garrus will understand," I assured her.

"If you say so. After cross-referencing range of customization, price, quality of materials and user satisfaction, I believe I have found a suitable establishment to make this plaque. While I place the order, perhaps you could think of something for Tali."

Hmm. I had to think about that. So much of Tali was defined by what she could do for the Flotilla; it was hard to think of what she might want for herself. It was one of the things I admired about her, to be honest. Though running headfirst into her prejudices and the prejudices of her people was extremely frustrating. I remembered how we had to bail out the quarians because they started an ill-advised war against the geth—you know, the one I advised them _not _to pursue—and we had pull their asses out of the fire—again—starting with a crazy trip to sneak aboard a geth dreadnought and disable it. The only upside was how we got the whole squad back together. Garrus must have thought so, the way he tried to pass the time with some banter. Offering Tali some—

"Turian chocolates," I blurted out. "That'll be a great gift for Tali."

Once again, EDI searched the extranet sites, made a choice and placed an order. "That leaves… Javik," she finally said.

Given how frequently he washed his hands, I was tempted to suggest a bulk order of hand sanitizer. It was probably a good thing I kept my mouth shut, though. EDI was getting better, but she still had a tendency of taking things a little too literally.

The funny thing was I had the same problem with Javik that I did with Tali. Tali had devoted her life to the greater good of the Flotilla; Javik had devoted his life to defeating the Reaper. He had literally dedicated himself as an Avatar of Vengeance. Now that his mission was complete… what was he going to do? I honestly did not know. I don't think he knew. But until he sorted that out, maybe he could spend some time learning about someone other than the Reapers. To get some more insight into the not-so-primitive people of this cycle.

While I was thinking, EDI was checking the confirmation e-mails from the various purchases we'd made. Satisfied that everything was in order, she went back to… the online bookstore? "EDI?" I asked aloud.

"I was thinking about Liara's previous career as an archaeologist," she replied. "She studied the past. Specifically, the Protheans. Javik came from the past. His life, his experiences, his perspectives. And we bought Liara a book, so…"

"…so maybe we could also find a book for Javik," I finished. "Sure. Why not?" I looked at the 'suggestions' on the front page. "As long as we pick something other than luggage, autobiographies of elcor opera singers and children's sing-along books."

It took a bit of research, but we eventually settled on a book about samurai. The electronic version—because Javik might be able to get psychometric impressions from paper or hardbook covers, but I'd yet to see him get flashbacks from ones and zeroes.

"That was… more fun than I expected," I admitted.

"I am glad you feel that way," EDI said. "To be honest, I was somewhat skeptical, but your sister was confident you would be fully engaged in this experience."

"My… Ellie? You spoke to Ellie?"

"Yes. Your sister, by virtue of shared experiences rather than genetics. We exchanged e-mails while you were convalescing. When I mentioned my desire to explore human rituals in greater detail, she suggested shopping."

Oh no.

"She also proposed that I enlist your aid and report back on the afternoon's progress."

Oh no.

"Apparently there will be some kind of 'flash sale' taking place in the near future. Given her current physical state, Ellie may not be able to operate at peak efficiency. She was hoping you could take her place if and when the sale is announced. This afternoon was intended as a dry run, of sorts."

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no…


	4. Shepard versus the Ivories

**Tales from the Citadel**

_Author's Note: Things are in a very uncertain and scary state right now, to say the least. We've all dealt with viruses before. Chicken pox. The common cold. H1N1. SARS. But none of them have seized the world and shut it down the way COVID-19 has._

_It's easy to feel helpless and afraid in the wake of this pandemic. But I think it's important to remember that we're all in this together. Every province, every state, every country is battling COVID-19. And no matter who you are, what you do or where you live, there are some things that you can do to help._

_Listen to the information and recommendations of your official health authorities, not hearsay or social media. Wash your hands—thoroughly, for a minimum of twenty seconds, with soap. If you don't have to leave your home—stay home (yeah, it might suck, but in the age of the Internet, there has never been more ways for you to spend your time indoors). If you need to go out—for work, for exercise or for groceries and other essentials—keep that minimum social distance of two metres or six feet. Resist the urge to congregate in groups and chat, to go out partying or dancing or sunbathing. Now is not the time to hang out. And if you have to stock up on supplies, don't give in to panic, the urge to hoard, or the opportunistic desire to make a personal profit at the expense of others. You're not the only one trying to get by, after all._

_The more you do this, the greater the chance that you won't catch COVID-19. Which means you won't pass it on to your friends. Your family. The elderly citizens, the sick and the immunocompromised. Your community. You'll ease the burden on your hospitals and healthcare workers, thus keeping them from being completely overwhelmed. You'll buy time for your medical and scientific organizations to develop and test treatments and vaccines. You can make a difference. It might not seem like much of a difference. The results might not be immediate. But every little bit can and will add up over the next week. The next two weeks. The next few months. It'll keep adding up until we've finally put COVID-19 to rest._

_Now maybe you're already doing this, in which case I thank you for your patience while I preached from atop my high horse. But if you have not done this, for whatever reason, now's the perfect time to start._

_Things are really uncertain and scary right now. But if we all keep our calm, do our part and stick together—we'll get through this. Together._

* * *

**Chapter 4: Shepard versus the Ivories**

The more I read the news, the more I regretted my insatiable curiosity.

Every colony was struggling to rebuild and was screaming for food, supplies, money and general assistance. Every planet was struggling to rebuild and was screaming for food, supplies and general assistance. Except for the asari homeworld, where some asari bigwig was proudly proclaiming that replacing all the dead Matriarchs with her daughters and granddaughters would solve all of Thessia's problems. She also reassured the galaxy that they were definitely her descendants because they were just as well-endowed as she was. Because nepotism and boobs apparently trumped actual experience, knowledge and wisdom.

And then there were the refugees. Seriously: every other story seemed to be about the plight of one refugee group or another. It was hard to find one that stood out. But I did.

The article was an in-depth analysis on the state of the batarians. They were the first to be hit by the Reapers. They were the first to be slaughtered, converted into Reaperfied horrors and driven off their homeworld to become galactic refugees. You'd think that would earn some sympathy. It didn't. To every other race, batarians were virulently conservative and xenophobic pirates, slavers and all-around thugs. Granted, a very visible minority lived down to that reputation, but most batarians weren't like that. Unfortunately, facts didn't matter. Reputation did. So even though batarians joined the allied war effort, fighting and bleeding and dying alongside the other races, they never got any trust and respect from their fellow soldiers. Not from the turians, not from the asari, not from the salarians and _definitely _not from the Alliance.

Now the war was over. And, thanks to the reputation of batarians, no one wanted them. Colony after colony showed batarian refugees the door, telling them to go back to where they came from. Normally, they wouldn't have many options. They could go back to the Terminus Systems and eke out a living under Aria T'Loak's thumb. They could cave to established stereotypes by becoming pirates or slavers. They could go back to Khar'Shan at the bequest of the batarian provisional government—formerly the Batarian Hegemony—acclimate themselves to brand new organizations like the Ministry of Public Awareness—formerly the Ministry of Information Control—and enjoy the perks of genuine batarian citizens—which basically meant returning to their former lives as downtrodden proles in a rabidly paranoid police state.

But now there was a new option: Camala. A former eezo-rich 'garden world,' it had raised eyebrows in the past with the shockingly bold idea of allowing the immigration of non-batarians. Oh, there were restrictions of course. The non-batarians had to come from independent colonies rather than, say, anything affiliated with the Alliance. And they couldn't become full-fledged citizens. But that was a far cry from anything the Hegemony offered.

Now? Now Governor Grothan Pazness—the same guy who went from blaming the Alliance for destroying batarian comm buoys to calling on all batarians to embrace the Citadel species as brothers and sisters in arms—was inviting refugees to come to Camala, clean up the last of the Reaper processing camps and make a new home for themselves. Refugees of _any _species. Batarian, turian, asari, human… _anyone. _Furthermore, he was promising democratic reforms not unlike that seen in most Citadel governments. Now the jury was out on that last one. And, so far, virtually all the refugees who had come to Camala were batarian. But I couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the galaxy yet.

I was just about to turn off my computer when a tell-tale ping told me I'd received a new e-mail. Sure enough, there was a single unread e-mail sitting in my inbox:

_Subject: Night off?  
From: Liara T'Soni_

_Shepard,_

_Do you remember the last time we were at the Citadel? How we cherished that one peaceful afternoon on the Presidium and wished we had more time to enjoy ourselves, without concerning ourselves with the Reaper War or some other conflict getting in the way? Well, the war is over, most of the galaxy's conflicts are far away—for the moment—and we finally have time to relax._

_I happened to acquire last-minute tickets for a piano concert tonight at one of the music halls on the Presidium. Would you care to join me?_

_Please let me know as soon as possible. My apologies for the short notice._

Well, I was really busy. But I suppose I could spare some time.

* * *

I got in touch with Liara and we arranged to meet at one of the rapid transit terminals on the Presidium within two hours—she wasn't kidding when she said she needed a reply ASAP. "Shepard," she greeted me when I got off the train.

"Liara," I returned. "Thanks for the invite."

"Thank you for agreeing so quickly." Liara motioned towards the exit and we headed off. Seeing how she seemed to know where to go, I let her take the lead.

"So how did you get these tickets?" I asked.

"Wrex offered them to me. He'd bought a raffle ticket for a fundraiser to support reconstruction efforts on Earth and that was the prize he'd won. Unfortunately, he was unable to attend the concert as he'd been recalled to Tuchanka. He didn't want them to go to waste, so he offered them to me."

"I see," I nodded. "Somehow, I have a feeling he would've offered them anyway."

"You're probably right."

"Next question."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"You know me too well. Back to my question: who's playing tonight?"

"Amadea M'Zara and Saliri Notis," Liara replied. "Both highly accomplished artists renowned for their prowess with multiple instruments from a variety of cultures and species. Each of them has won an enviable assortment of awards, prizes and competitions. Truth be told, I was surprised to hear they would be playing together tonight."

"Why's that?"

"They have a long-standing rivalry that started during a music competition on Thessia in, oh, 1750. Saliri accused Amadea of trying to bribe the judges. Amadea insisted she was innocent."

"Did she?"

"No one knows. It was all rendered moot after they were both thrown out."

"For what?"

"For fighting. And bringing down the concert hall around them."

I blinked. "Biotics?"

"Biotics."

"Wow. I've heard of diva spats, but I always pictured passive-aggressive jabs during interviews and over social media."

"Oh they've done that as well over the last couple centuries. But that was the extent of their interaction. Up until now, they hadn't played or competed against each other."

"Huh." I thought about that. "Well, things change. Maybe they finally decided to bury the hatchet."

You'd think I'd have learned to keep my big damn mouth shut. Because no sooner had I blurted that out than I saw a flare of cerulean light up ahead, followed by a faint rumble under our feet and a brief cacophony that sounded like a bunch of kids randomly slamming their hands on a set of keyboards. Liara and I exchanged looks before breaking into a run. We sprinted to the end of the hallway, skidded to a stop at the rail and looked down.

The concert hall lay just below us, a gleaming monument of steel and glass, though a good chunk of the latter had been thoroughly shattered. A trail of broken musical instruments, damaged equipment and miscellaneous debris extended all the way through the foyer to the metal art sculpture on the public walkway.

And there, in the midst of all that destruction, surrounded by a nervous crowd of the aforementioned public, were two asari. "Let me guess," I said dryly. "Amadea and Saliri?"

"I'm afraid so. Should we get involved?"

It's a testament to how screwed up my life had been that my first response was yes. Yes, I should get involved. Yes, I should stick my nose between two asari divas who were resuming their violent and destructive disagreement after a centuries-long ceasefire. Yes, I needed to volunteer for another suicidal mission that would most likely end with my untimely and thoroughly messy death.

"You know what?" I said instead. "Let's just wait and let C-Sec do their job. We can always reconsider later."

With that settled, we leaned against the rail and watched the show. The asari on our left—who I later learned was Amadea—lifted a speaker up into the air and hurled it at Saliri. She made a gesture and the speaker ripped apart seconds before it slammed into her. Saliri responded by sending a shockwave through the floor that knocked Amadea off her feet and into one of the two pianos, which had somehow stayed more or less intact. At least, until Amadea jumped to her feet, tore off the top of the piano and hurled it at Saliri—who hurled it right back.

Dodging the return fire, Amadea sent a blast into the nearby piano's keyboard. She then used her biotics to pick up the ivories and fired them off like miniature black and white missiles. Saliri gracefully danced around each and every one of them. But eventually she decided to go on the offensive. With a metallic shriek, the sculpture was yanked from its fixtures and launched towards Amadea, who deflected it aside with a contemptuous gesture.

"My sculpture," I heard someone cry out below. "It's ruined."

"It was a travesty before," someone else shouted. "Now it actually looks like art."

"You take that back."

"Make me."

Two turians almost came to blows before their friends/partners/companions pulled them apart. Everyone else was watching the asari with slack-jawed expressions on their faces… or feverishly recording the duel on their omni-tools. Amadea was back to tearing the piano apart and sending the pieces of wood flying at her adversary. Saliri managed to dodge most of them… except the last piano leg which clipped her shoulder and sent her spinning to the floor. Seizing the moment, Amadea charged forward.

Even on her knees, Saliri wasn't out of the fight. With a flick of her wrist, an assortment of piano keys and chunks of wood soared through the air and began orbiting around her like planets around a star. They spun faster and faster, picking up speed, before flying at Amadea like a barrage of bullets from a machine-gun. Amadea hastily pulled the remains of her piano into a makeshift shield that absorbed every hit, while causing a stray piano cable to wrap around Saliri's feet and pull them out from under her. Saliri snapped them with a chopping motion, sprang to her feet and levitated a nearby speaker into the air. Amadea allowed her ersatz barrier to collapse in a rain of splinters while she dragged the sculpture—the one that may or may not have been art—towards her.

And that was when C-Sec moved in, forming a human/turian/asari shield between the public—who were still putting themselves in danger by watching the show—and the asari divas. One of them lifted her omni-tool to her mouth and activated some kind of loudspeaker app. "Step away from the pianos—at least, what's left of them—lower those… items to the ground and put your hands up. The two of you are under arrest. You both have the right to remain silent and, by the Goddess, I hope you take it."

* * *

After C-Sec arrived, the show was pretty much over. Everyone who had witnessed Amadea and Saliri going at it were questioned. Yes, that included me and Liara.

The C-Sec officer interviewing me must have realized who I was, because I got a call over the comm just as he was wrapping things up. _"Shepard? It's Bailey. What the hell happened?"_

Ah. Commander Bailey. Head of C-Sec. "Not really sure. I was just hoping to catch a piano concert. As I was saying to your officer, I arrived to find Ms. M'Zara and Ms. Notis fighting."

"_And this has nothing to do with Alliance or Spectre business?"_

"Not that I'm aware of."

"_That's be a first. Seems like every time you're on the Citadel, something happens."_

The last time Bailey saw me, I was trying to convince C-Sec to hold off while I investigated why a previously no-name merc group was trying to take me out. The time before that, Cerberus was invading the Citadel in a coup attempt. And then there was the time he helped Thane and I track down his son before Kolyat could pull off a hit on a local politician. I guess I couldn't blame Bailey for being just a little concerned. "Not by choice," I said ruefully.

"_Yeah, yeah. Just thought I'd check in and make sure there isn't any jurisdictional crap I have to worry about. I like to get ahead of those before they turn into clusterfucks." _

"I hear you, Bailey. But like I said, I know nothing about this. Guess I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"_Understood. Have a good evening, Commander. Bailey out."_

With that, Liara and I headed back to Anderson's apartment. Needless to say, the concert was cancelled. "Well," I said brightly, "that was fun."

"It was more eventful than I had anticipated," Liara agreed. "I'm sorry the evening didn't turn out the way I'd planned."

"Don't worry about it," I reassured her. "It's not your fault. Listen, I'm just gonna hit the head. Why don't you make yourself at home?"

I went to the washroom and did what I had to do. As I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, I thought I heard music. Which wouldn't have been odd, except… I didn't recognize the melody. At least, it wasn't a melody from any song in my personal library. What made it even stranger was how tentative the melody was. There were odd pauses and breaks in the music, like someone who was guessing or trying to remember the notes. I stepped outside and looked around.

And then it all made sense.

Liara was standing by the piano, playing something with one hand. The pace was a bit slow, occasionally faltering, but I had the feeling she hadn't played this song in a while. From what I could hear, it sounded calm and peaceful. I leaned against the wall, not wanting to disturb her.

Glyph, having no compunctions about interruptions whatsoever, suddenly popped up from the side of the piano. "Greetings, Commander," it said cheerfully.

"Hi, Glyph," I returned before turning my attention to my friend. "You've been holding out on me, Liara. I didn't know you could play."

"Actually, this is the only song I know," she confessed.

"Your only song is better than mine," I shrugged.

"Do _you _play?"

"Used to. I took lessons as a kid. Mom wanted me to reap the benefits of learning music. Keep my brain sharp, prevent memory loss, improve my reading comprehension, hone my concentration and discipline, and so on and so forth. Got pretty good after a while. Even developed perfect pitch, according to one of my teachers."

"So what happened?"

"I didn't have enough concentration and discipline to stick with it," I admitted. "The only song I actually remember is 'Chopsticks.' Yet another reason why I ultimately enlisted."

"At least you took lessons," Liara said. "I never even went that far."

"Why not?"

"There was always something more important to do. A ruin to uncover, intel to gather…" She trailed off and gave me a teasing smile. "…a commander to save."

"Please," I snorted. "You couldn't sit still long enough."

"Neither could you, apparently," she retorted.

"Touché. But somehow, you found the time to learn this song."

"I did. On one of my first digs. We were uncovering some Prothean carvings when a storm swept in. By the time we secured the carvings, it was too late to fly out. We had to take refuge in a nearby cave. I was so restless; I just wanted to get back to work. But I couldn't. We were trapped inside.

"One of the other archaeologists, Dr. Olena, had this keyboard. She took it everywhere. Seeing how stir-crazy I was, she offered to give me an impromptu lesson to pass the time. She taught me to play this song while we waited for the storm to pass."

"It's a good song," I said.

"Thank you, Shepard." She played another few lines. "I've always loved that song. Dr. Olena was a good teacher… and a good friend."

"'Was'?" I echoed.

"She passed away forty… three?—no, forty-four—years ago. Heart attack."

Huh. It was easy to think that people who were no longer with us must have died during the Reaper War. But that wasn't true. No matter the circumstances, life—and death—went on. And Liara, despite appearances, was several decades my senior. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. But playing this song, remembering who taught it to me and the circumstances behind it... makes me think. I spend so much time chasing down knowledge. Sometimes I forget that there are things you learn by doing nothing."

She turned towards me again and smiled. "By just spending time with the people you care about."

I didn't know what to say. No, that's not true. It's just… everything I could say seemed so trite. So cliché. Liara was more than just a squadmate or a colleague who had worked alongside me on and off over the last several years. She was a cherished friend, a comrade in arms. We'd fought beside each other. Saved each other more times than either of us could count. We'd seen so many horrors and wonders together. What could I possibly say that would adequately cover all of that?

In the end, my curiosity got the better of me. "What have you learned from me?"

Liara's smile turned into a smirk. "I suppose how to get myself into life-threatening situations on a daily basis."

Ha! I could point out that when we'd first met, she'd gotten herself trapped inside a Prothean security device. But why dwell on the minor details? "I _am_ a good teacher, aren't I?" I said with mock pride.

"The best."

We shared a brief chuckle, which died down to a comfortable silence.

"I should probably go," Liara said. "I have reports to look over."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously? We're on shore leave. Don't tell me you were going to review reports during the concert."

"No, I was not. But the concert has been cancelled."

"And yet, the reports will still be there tomorrow."

"You have a point, I suppose."

"Glad to hear it." I motioned to the piano. "So why don't you teach me that song? How did it go again?"


	5. Shepard versus the Breeding Stock

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 5: Shepard versus the Breeding Stock**

The Silver Coast Casino was having a 'retro' night, which apparently meant playing 'old' music from the late twentieth century. Most people had never heard of it, but me? This was my kind of jam. Honestly, enjoying the feels from my kind of music was the only thing keeping me here. I was supposed to meet Anderson for drinks, but he was a no-show. I think I knew why. It was all Hahne-Kedar's fault.

In my more generous moments, I had to admit that Hahne-Kedar weapons were simple, reliable and easy to learn—all of which made them a good start for recruits. That being said, they weren't great. Basic, stock quality at best. Few people outside the Alliance would use them if they had a choice. Most soldiers within the Alliance who didn't have any other option would bitch about it at the drop of a hat.

Hahne-Kedar must've gotten some kind of customer feedback. But rather than improve their weapons, they started up a subsidiary of sorts dedicated to the manufacture of mechs. It was all pretty low-key until the Battle of the Citadel. Suddenly, guards and military forces all over the galaxy had a gaping hole in personnel and were desperate to fill it with anyone or anything. Sales went way up. FENRIS, LOKI, YMIR… you name it, someone would buy it. Unfortunately, it didn't take long before their shortcomings came to light. Simplistic programming that limited them to only the most basic of tasks. Civvie-grade firewalls that even an amateur hacker could break. And then there was the fact that Hahne-Kedar didn't make any effort to vet their customers or keep track of the mechs after the credits came in—which was why, by 2185, there were more mechs in the hands of criminals and mercs than law-abiding citizens. Not exactly something to boast about.

The only beacon of light for Hahne-Kedar was their armour—or hardsuits if you want to use the technical military term. Most soldiers were willing to admit that Hahne-Kedar hardsuits were generally above average. Their N7 Armour in particular was noted for being highly modular and customizable, to the point where other suppliers would rather sell interchangeable components compatible with the N7 line than make a competing product from scratch. You'd think that would be the linchpin for a new strategy. A new plan to turn things around. Especially with everything they did to help the allied war effort fight the Reapers.

Then a journalist started digging and found a few inconvenient truths, which she had just published. To say it was explosive would be an understatement.

First, it turned out that the Alliance signed a supply contract with Hahne-Kedar without reading the fine print. Which meant they were contractually obligated to buy the majority of their weapons and products from Hahne-Kedar. It wasn't a monopoly, mind you, but still. They had no influence over price, quality or customer service—which meant Hahne-Kedar could change things on the fly and the Alliance would just have to suck it up. The contract was good for fifty years. _Fifty. Years. _That's a long time by human standards.

But wait: there's more. Despite that lucrative contract, Hahne-Kedar still operated at a loss. Year after year, they were in the red. So the Alliance started bailing them out at the expense of taxpayers. Yeah, that's right. Schmucks like you and me were forking over hard-earned credits so a company could stave off filing for bankruptcy and continue selling us crap products—N7 Armour notwithstanding—for another day. Oh, and they also laid off tens of thousands of workers while rewarding the top executives with a forty percent raise.

But wait: there's more. Not content with having the Systems Alliance over a barrel, Hahne-Kedar tried to pull the same trick on the krogan and the turians. When they didn't bite, Hahne-Kedar decided to resort to bribery. That's right: a human company tried to _bribe _various krogan clan leaders and the turian government. To no one's surprise—it didn't work. Naturally it didn't take long for the krogan and the turians to bring their complaints to the Alliance Parliament… who did absolutely nothing. Oh, there were promises of investigations and bringing people to account and justice. Behind closed doors. Without a word being leaked to the public. And somehow Parliament got distracted. So nothing was ever done.

And then the Reapers invaded, Arcturus Station was destroyed—along with the entire Alliance Parliament, Earth was invaded and everything went topsy-turvy.

Now the war was over. The journalist released the story through Future Content Corporation. Everyone was talking about it. Which meant top Alliance officials would likely be asked for comment, especially since Hahne-Kedar management was either shitting bricks or running for the hills. It was looking more and more like Anderson would be one of those people. I said a silent prayer for him. And for me—I really didn't want to face a horde of reporters again.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large and familiar figure shuffle forward. "Wrex! I didn't know you were back. What're you doing here?"

Wrex didn't respond. I took a closer look and did a double-take. He looked haggard. _Exhausted. _Reaching out, he steadied himself against the bar counter and dropped onto the stool beside me. I heard an audible groan as the metal legs bent ever so slightly under the sudden weight.

"Ugh," Wrex managed before his head dropped down. The entire counter shook when his head hit the surface. So did any glasses sitting on the counter… and the glassware hanging behind the bar. I barely heard Wrex reply over the din of all the clattering glass: "Escaping."

One-word answer. Probably not a good sign. "'Escaping'?" I repeated. "From what?"

"Ever since we cured the genophage, it's been nothing but work," he replied.

"Council been riding you?" I asked sympathetically. "Or were you butting heads with the clans again?"

"Bah!" Wrex snorted, waving them off dismissively. "Not those pyjak shit-slingers. No, it's the…"

He suddenly stopped. Looked around wildly. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was… scared. "It's the females, Shepard," he finally whispered.

"The… females?"

"Now that they're fertile again…"

Wait… no, it couldn't be. He couldn't possibly mean…

"Ugh." Again, his head dropped against the counter. Again, the glasses shook. "I haven't slept in… I don't know how long."

Oh… my… God…

The bartender looked over, saw Wrex and came over. "Can I get you two anything?" she asked.

I was too busy shaking with silent laughter to answer. Wrex didn't even bother lifting his head. "Two drinks… and a bag of ice."

"I'll have a glass of the house red," I finally squeaked out. "Get him…" I thought about what Wrex would want—or need—but came up empty. "Get him something strong. And some ice."

"Ryncol," Wrex said tersely. "Neat. And I was serious about the ice." As the bartender moved away, he suddenly leaned towards me. "You weren't followed, were you?"

"Followed?" I said blankly. "By who?"

"By krogan females. A lot of them know you're a friend of mine. They might be tracking you to get to me."

"Seriously?" I rolled my eyes. "Wrex, I would've thought you'd be enjoying the… perks of krogan fertility."

"Enjoying it?" Wrex looked at me incredulously. "Do you know what I've gone through ever since I got back to Tuchanka? Celebration after celebration—only there's no banquet hall surrounded by the bones of our fallen enemies. No tables groaning under the weight of freshly seared thresher maw steaks. Just me in my bedroom, waiting for the females to come. One after the other after the other… they just kept _coming_."

There were so many dirty jokes; I didn't know where to start. Luckily, my big mouth didn't have that problem: "Easy come, easy go."

"Shepard, I'm not kidding. There was a line of females outside my dwelling. They're probably still lined up right now! Stretched on for as far as you can see."

"Stretching's good," I nodded solemnly. "Always important to stretch your muscles before exercising."

"But with exercise, at least you have to rest every now and then. I didn't get a break. Couldn't grab a bite to eat or go to take a crap without a female ready to jump me. Finally, I had to sneak out my own bathroom window!"

"Gotta give you props for stamina. Unless…" I trailed off and raised an eyebrow at Wrex. "Are you sure you aren't making some of this up?"

"I wish I was," he said morosely. "They were _relentless_. Had to pull every trick I learned as a bounty hunter to give them the slip, make it to the closest starport and sneak aboard the first shuttle to the Citadel. But my luck ran out: I was cornered by _two more_ females on the ride from Tuchanka. Didn't get a moment's peace during the entire trip to the Citadel. Thankfully, they went back home once they got what they wanted."

"Shamelessly used and discarded like yesterday's trash," I sighed. "And it's just you? They're not spreading the love around?"

Wrex rolled his eyes. "Sure, but everyone wants their firstborn in generations to be strong and fit."

"Right. I get that."

"I'm the leader of Clan Urdnot. I brought an end to the genophage. Everyone on Tuchanka wants a _piece_ of me."

"Well that's not entirely true," I grinned. "Sounds like they want one piece in particular. I didn't realize you were such a stud, Wrex. Must be pretty lonely on the top."

"Very funny."

"It's kinda funny. What does Bakara think of this? Is she okay with this?"

"Okay with this? She _encourages_ it! It'll bring the krogan people together, she says. Gotta restore the krogan after centuries of suffering under the genophage, she says."

"Very open-minded of her," I said with a straight face. "I knew there was a reason I liked her."

"Hmmph," Wrex snorted. "I'm telling you, Shepard, it's a good thing the war is over. 'Cuz I'm in no shape to fight Reapers."

Geez, Wrex was being such a drama queen. "Considering everything we've been through, I can think of worse positions to be in."

"Trust me, Shepard," he said dryly, "I've been in every position possible in the past few days."

Maybe it was the surreal nature behind Wrex's little 'crisis.' Maybe it was the fact that the VI began playing Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" at that very moment—honestly, it wasn't me. Clearly the universe found this as amusing as I did. Either way, that was when I finally lost it. Wrex watched with dismay as I burst into laughter. "You know," he growled as tears streamed down my face, "a _real_ friend would show more sympathy."

"I… I'm s-sorry, Wrex," I tried. "It's just… after everything we've been through… You've fought everything from geth to husks to Reaper monsters. You helped cure the genophage. You practically jumped at the opportunity to fight those CAT6 mercs. And now you're complaining because every other female on Tuchanka wants to jump your bones and fuck like bunnies?"

Wrex might've said something, but I couldn't hear him over my howls of laughter. Wiping my eyes, I saw the bartender return. "One glass of red wine, one glass of ryncol… and a bag of ice."

I picked up the wine and was about to take a sip. Then I realized Wrex was looking at me. He tilted his head towards the ice and gave me a pointed stare.

Oh. _Oh_.

Turning away, I tried to ignore the crinkle of plastic as Wrex picked up the bag.

"Um… you mind standing up? Maybe move in front of me?"

I stared at him. "You seriously think I can block people from noticing you're stuffing _ice_ down your _pants_ to cool your _quad_?"

"Fine, fine. Just look away."

I pretended not to hear him when he muttered "Can't believe I called you my brother." I definitely did my best to pretend I didn't hear his groans of relief. The thought of Wrex opening up his hardsuit and stuffing the bag around his overworked quad prompted me to gulp down the wine in a futile attempt to drown out the images before they seared themselves into my brain.

"And I thought Mordin's procedure was painful," I heard him rumble.

Too… much… information…

"Ah, well…"

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. "Shit, Shepard," Wrex said at last. "We sure have been through it, haven't we?"

"Still going through it," I replied. "Somehow, despite the odds, the two of us are still standing. Though one of us might be standing a little straighter and walking a little easier than the other."

Wrex let out a hearty laugh, having rediscovered his sense of humour now that 'Little Wrex' had cooled down. "True." He motioned for the bartender and ordered another round for both of us. "Well," he said after she dropped off our drinks, "here's to us! And to going through it."

"I'll drink to that," I smiled. I took a more moderate sip this time and gently put the glass down.

In stark contrast to my moderation, Wrex tossed back the ryncol and slammed the glass firmly on the counter. "Korbal!" he cried out.

Seeing my blank stare, he added "It means victory or death. Roughly."

"Ah," I said with a sly smile, "but you can't die, Wrex. You've got a family now. A really… big… family."

Groaning, Wrex dropped his head on the counter again. The glasses were still shaking when he called out: "More ice!"

* * *

Not wanting to get another flash of Wrex stuffing ice down his pants, I chose to make a trip to the little boy's room. I was on my way back when I saw them. Might've been something, might've been nothing, but I surreptitiously activated my comm.

"Wrex," I said calmly, "don't freak out, but I need you to listen very carefully."

"_What? Why?" _

"Two krogan females have just entered the Silver Coast Casino."

"_Shit! Are you sure?"_

"Krogan are usually pretty distinctive. But if you're curious, they're going up the stairs and should hit the main floor any second now. Take a look—carefully."

There was a pause, followed by another _"Shit!"_

"Krogan females?"

"_Krogan females." _

"That was pretty much my response too. You recognize them?"

"_Didn't get that good a look. Still: they're krogan and they're female. That's all I need to know."_

Normally, I'd think that was stereotyping things just a bit too much but, under the circumstances, I decided to cut him some slack. "So I figure you wanna get out of here."

"_Yeah. Any ideas?"_

"I'll guide you. Wait a sec." I watched the krogan females before I got on the comm again. "Okay, they've just split up. One's heading for the quasar games, the other's heading to the bar and… yep, she's talking to the bartender… who just pointed upstairs." I looked for the other krogan. Thankfully, she'd passed the quasar games and had gone out of sight. "Wrex, take the left stairs and stop by the waterfall display."

"_You mean the hanar urinal?"_

That was a hanar—never mind. "Yeah. That. Go down the stairs and hold your position by the hanar urinal… _now._"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wrex creep down the stairs. He was surprisingly nimble for such a big guy. "Okay," I said. "Coast is clear. Stay close to the wall and head to the stairs."

Wrex followed my directions to the letter. All seemed well at first, until—

"Wait!" I yelped.

The krogan female who had searched the ground floor had finished her circuit. I could see her coming my way. The moment Wrex tried to go down the stairs; he'd cross into her field of view. What he needed was a distraction. I looked around… and spotted a half dozen kids standing in a rough circle, hunched over their omni-tools. Probably playing one of those mobile games that were apparently all the rage. I was more interested in the fact that they probably had an open connection to the extranet, they were unlikely to have any serious encryption and they were near the quasar machines. "Wrex, on my signal, run to the rail, vault over the edge and run down the stairs." Without waiting for him to acknowledge, I hacked the kids' omni-tools.

An ear-splitting screech pierced the air, followed by a racket that sounded like a bunch of poorly-maintained starships powering up. The kids clapped their hands over their ears, only to regret it as the movement brought their omni-tools—the source of the noise—that much closer. Everyone whipped their heads around and stared at the kids.

More importantly, the other krogan female turned to face the kids too. "Wrex," I said. "Go, go, go!"

I was already halfway down the stairs by the time Wrex began his descent. Figured he would need an advance scout. Emerging from the casino, I looked around. To my left was a trio of salarians who were moping about how they worked months on months on a big scientific paper, only to get 'scooped'. Straight ahead were a bunch of hyperactive asari kids running circles around their elcor dad. And on my right was a human trying to take a selfie, only to have her shot ruined by… another krogan female. "Wrex, move up to the casino entrance and wait. When I give the word, go out and turn left. Head to the ad display on your left."

Over the comm, I could hear Wrex breathing heavily. Clearly he didn't like the prospect of being hunted. Now that I saw what he was up against, I couldn't say I blamed him. "Wait…" I said. "Wait…"

The krogan female turned away. "Go. Left to the ad display. Go."

Wrex was already leaving the casino before I said 'left'. He was halfway to the ad display when I saw the krogan female turn back. I realized he wouldn't make it to cover in time. Thankfully there were a fair number of people milling about. "Bend down. Pretend you're tying your boot."

He ducked down just in time. The krogan female passed her eyes over the area, but she didn't have X-ray vision. "Doing good, Wrex," I assured him.

She started to turn away again. "Get up and move behind the ad display in four… three… two… one… go."

He practically scurried to the tall cylindrical column that had a rotating series of posters on all the latest attractions and deals. _"Now what?"_ he panted.

"She's turning back. Once she looks away again, I'll tell you to move. You'll head down the corridor towards the bar."

Wrex was silent for a few seconds before he got on the comm again. _"I think the females have their own accomplice."_

"What're you talking about?"

"_Asari up ahead. Way she's lookin' at me; I can tell she's seen combat."_

I looked at her. "That's Matriarch Aethyta. Liara's father. Doubt she's involved."

"_Oh man, she's reaching behind her. She's reaching for a gun."_

"No, she's not," I said firmly. "Do not leave the display, Wrex. I repeat, do not—"

"_She's made me. I'm sure of it. I gotta go, Shepard. I gotta go!"_

"Wait, Wrex—"

Too late. Wrex bolted from the display and began lumbering down the corridor like an oversized rabbit flushed out of his hole. I glanced back at the krogan female, hoping against hope that she somehow missed him. No such luck: her eyes were fixed on Wrex, she was urgently talking to someone—her fellow females, no doubt—on her omni-tool and she was definitely on the move. Biting back a curse, I looked for a way to get him out of this. "All right, Wrex. Keep going. Get through this crowd. You gotta get through this crowd."

What Wrex—and I—needed was a distraction. Thankfully, one quickly came to mind. Raising a hand, I waved down Aethyta.

"Shepard," she greeted me. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Likewise," I said. "Listen, I'm helping a friend out and I could really use your help. See that krogan female behind me? I need you to stall her."

She followed my gaze and raised an eyebrow. "What did your friend do?"

"Let's just say no good deed goes unpunished," I replied vaguely. "Will you help me?"

"Oh, what the hell," Aethyta shrugged. "Guess I owe you one for convincing Liara to reach out to me."

See? Being a busybody does pay off. Eventually. "Thanks," I said.

As I moved away, I activated my comm. "Wrex, head into the bar up ahead. There's a door on the far right that leads to a side exit in the alley. I'll meet you there."

"_Got it."_

Meanwhile, I figured I should see how Aethyta was doing. Looking over my shoulder, I could tell she hadn't wasted any time intercepting the krogan female. "Resha?" she exclaimed, clapping the krogan on the shoulder. "By the Goddess, it _is _you! I haven't seen you since the Reaper War. How're you doing?"

I couldn't hear the krogan female's response, but I could tell she was confused. She'd slowed to a halt, evidently deciding not to shove Aethyta out of the way. Good enough. I double-timed it to the alley.

Wrex had just stepped out when I arrived. "Well?"

"Don't know about the krogan females in the casino, but I managed to shake off the one outside. I think we're in the clear."

"Good," Wrex said, visibly relieved. "I owe you big, Shep…"

He trailed off, just as the back of my neck started tingling. Slowly, I turned around.

And I realized my celebration was premature.

There were three more krogan females standing outside an open skycar. Looked like they had just landed and had somehow squeezed out. And we had run right into them.

"Urdnot Wrex," one of them breathed.

"Urdnot Wrex," the second echoed, licking her lips.

"Commander Shepard," said the third one with a lascivious grin.

Wait. What?

I looked at the krogan who'd said my name. She caught my eye and winked. I was confused. Why would she—

Then I remembered an errant comment EDI had made on Tuchanka, after I helped Grunt with his Rite of Ascension. Something about how there were a lot of mating requests for Grunt… and one for me.

Aw, crap.

Wrex and I exchanged looks. After fighting countless battles against mercs, geth, husks, Thorian creepers and a menagerie of Reaperfied horrors... there was only one possible course of action to take.

"_RUN!"_


	6. Shepard versus the Badass

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 6: Shepard versus the Badass**

I never thought I'd see the day where Wrex would cower and hide. Mind you, that was before I saw Wrex run to the Citadel, exhausted from facing lines of krogan females eager to jump his bones. That was before I personally witnessed said females hunting him down for breeding stock. And that was before I got (another) proposition from a krogan female who had, shall we say, somewhat more exotic tastes.

Somehow, we gave them the slip and made it back to Anderson's apartment. All that N7 training on escaping and evading danger paid off in spades. Oddly enough, the instructors never actually covered running from krogan nymphomaniacs in their strategy sessions. Go figure.

We were still hiding when Miranda dropped by. I was about to ask what she was doing here when I remembered: I was supposed to meet her for breakfast before she flew down to Earth. The Alliance supposedly wanted to consult her on Cerberus distribution channels, though we both suspected they just wanted to lock her in a small room and interrogate her for the umpteenth time. While we—well, _I_—joked about having a 'last supper' the night before her departure, we opted for breakfast instead. Which I completely forgot about in my panic.

Another woman might have sat there at the café for hours, desperately waiting for her man to arrive. Another woman might have felt like she had been stood up. Miranda waited for twenty minutes before calling me, which I didn't hear as I had muted my comm. After thirty-eight minutes, she decided to investigate. Once she saw Wrex and I running around like traumatized kids, she just had to know what had happened. So we told her.

To her credit, she didn't roll around on the floor howling with laughter while tears streamed down her face. But she did cover her mouth. A squealing noise similar to air escaping a balloon may have come from her general direction. And when she turned away, her shoulders may have quivered ever so slightly.

Naturally, she had a plan to help us out—once she recovered, that is. Over a hastily whipped-up breakfast, we hashed out the details. Wrex found himself scheduling a whole bunch of meetings with the Citadel Council. Best way to keep him safe from all those krogan females was to lock him up with 'those pyjak shit-slingers'. And when he was done with those meetings? He could demand a protective detail as a foreign dignitary, which C-Sec was obligated to provide. As for me? The krogan female interested in me hadn't exactly been much of an obsessive stalker. Her theory was that she was mainly interested in Wrex, but only switched back to me as a second choice. All I had to do was keep a low profile. Sooner or later, she'd get bored and leave. I wasn't entirely convinced, but it was a better plan than locking the doors and assuming the fetal position.

Wrex went off to 'face his doom' while I walked Miranda to the docks and saw her off before quickly returning to Anderson's apartment. Once I had double-checked and triple-checked the security, I decided to skim the news feeds.

The top story was the aftermath on the investigative report about Hahne-Kedar's dirty tricks and shenanigans. Apparently, the repercussions were quick and decisive. The executive board was fired. Hahne-Kedar's stock went into freefall. The new interim CEO ordered an immediate shutdown of their mech factories—arguably their most controversial and least profitable product—and promised an immediate independent review of their past business practices. As for the Alliance, it turns out that the people responsible for agreeing to this boondoggle were either dead or retired. The surviving brass who inherited this mess had been doing everything they could to renegotiate the terms of their contract. Now that the cat was out of the bag, they were free to make their efforts public—and use the growing public sympathy to their advantage.

At least Hahne-Kedar was being held accountable, which was more than I could say for Dalatrass Linron. Or, as I liked to call her, Dalatrass Crankypants. You know, the one who had been overbearing and demanding even before the multi-species war summit that was intended to coordinate a galactic response to the Reapers. The one who had done her best to obstruct any effort to cure the genophage—from denying its impact on the krogan, to denying the salarians were keeping fertile krogan females, to acts of brinkmanship during the transfer of said females to krogan custody, to secret attempts to bribe me into sabotaging the cure. Oh, and let's not forget the big one: making some kind of arrangement with Cerberus to let them into salarian territory and launch an attack on the supposedly secret base where the krogan females were kept.

It was that last part that had prompted an investigation. An investigation that was supposed to be independent. Until the lead investigator was forcibly and mysteriously fired. The replacement, in case you were wondering, was notorious for his anti-krogan sentiments and his borderline sycophantic praise for Dalatrass Crankypants. And none of the other dalatrasses seemed inclined—or lacked the political connections and power—to oppose Crankypants. Which was more than a little irritating to yours truly. I almost missed the days when problems could be solved by picking up a gun and pulling the trigger.

Well the universe must've been listening, 'cuz that's when I received this e-mail:

_Subject: Combat Sim_

_From: Jack_

_Shep!_

_I hear this Silversun Strip has a combat simulator and I feel like kicking the crap out of something. If you're game and are still hanging out on the Citadel, let me know._

I knew what Jack was talking about, having passed Armax Arsenal Arena several times. I'd even received an e-mail from them inviting me to play:

_Subject: From Your Friends at Armax Arsenal Arena_

_From: Armax Arsenal Arena Team_

_Dear Commander Shepard,_

_We here at Armax Arsenal are huge fans of yours, and we can't tell you how much we value your efforts in the fight against the Reapers. In an effort to raise both awareness and morale here on the Citadel, we've recently reskinned the holographic enemies in our simulator to look like Cerberus troops. We got a big surge of viewer interest when we added geth enemies a few years back after their attack on the Citadel, and we're adding Reaper forces as well._

_We understand how busy you are, but if you ever feel like unwinding on shore leave and giving our viewers a taste of what a real military veteran can do, we would love to have you come compete. You've got a complimentary pass waiting for you whenever you're interested._

_Thanks again,  
Your friends at Armax Arsenal_

While I wasn't really busy per se, I hadn't bothered to take them up on their offer. I've never seen the point of fighting simulated hostiles—holographic or otherwise—unless it was for training purposes and I had fought more than enough real enemies for a lifetime. Quite frankly, playing soldier in the arena would probably be a pale imitation of the real thing. Not to mention all the PTSD that might come up.

On the other hand, my psychiatrist seemed to think I had a remarkably good mental state considering all the horrors I'd endured. Maybe blowing off steam with Jack wouldn't be a terrible idea. Besides, if any krogan females dared to show up, at least I'd have some backup.

* * *

Jack and I agreed to meet that evening at the arena. She said she'd take care of making a reservation and meet me there.

So I was somewhat surprised when Jack rang the doorbell. "So what?" she laughed when I let her in. "A private cabin on a stealth warship isn't enough for you?"

"I'm watching the place for a friend," I explained. "What're you doing here? Thought we were going to meet at the arena. Did you book a time for us?"

"Yeah. Just have to make a detour first."

"Okay." I watched as she leaned out the door and whistled, followed by some kissing noises. "What're you doing?" I asked.

"Calling Eezo."

"Eezo?" I echoed. Just as I was about to ask whether that was anything like 'Finding Nemo,' a varren came charging out of the elevator, barrelled down the hall and knocked me over like a bowling pin. Before I could pick my ass off the floor, the varren snatched up the frying pan I'd dropped and began gnawing away at it like it was a chew toy.

"Yeah, he's from Thessia," Jack replied as I tried to retrieve the frying pan without losing a hand. "Naturally biotic from all the element zero. The biotics make them short-tempered, so a lot of them get abused or abandoned. Can you imagine someone doing that?"

Finally, I pried the frying pan loose, only to realize that the tooth-shaped dents and cracks meant I'd never be able to use it for cooking ever again. Glaring down at the varren—red with dark brown patches on the head and stripes running down the side—I saw him panting at me, tongue dangling out. His attention seemed firmly fixated on the frying pan. Sighing, I threw the frying pan out of the apartment and down the hallway. Eezo promptly charged after it, picked it up and brought it back. I hefted the frying pan and threw it again.

"I found him at a rescue place," Jack continued, seemingly oblivious to the game of fetch Eezo and I were playing. "I'm trying to teach him that it's okay to trust people. He started out really angry, but I've been giving him lots of love, and now he's a big ol' softy."

Eezo had brought the frying pan back. I had to say, this was a refreshing change from all the varren who had tried to rip my face off. I began playing with the varren, pretending to throw the frying pan while actually keeping a tight grip. Eezo caught on quick. After falling for it the first time, he waited for me to make my next move. When I faked another throw, he yawned.

Then he emitted a biotic pulse that knocked me on my ass. Again.

That got Jack's attention. "What?"

"Just playing around," I told her, picking myself up off the floor. "You're aware of the parallels here, right?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Shepard?"

"Mistreated biotic? Trust issues? Ring any bells?"

She gave me a blank look. Maybe she didn't know what I was talking about. I mean, I wouldn't say I found her at a rescue place, but I had picked her up from a Blue Suns prison ship after Cerberus had negotiated her release—one of the few good things TIMmy ever did. She had been abused and abandoned throughout her life. I had done my best to demonstrate that she could trust people, despite the anger and profanity she threw at me, Miranda and, well, everybody. And now look at her: finding a new life at the Ascension Project. Teaching a bunch of biotic kids and leading them into battle as a biotic support unit assigned to the 103rd Marine Division. Adopting an abused varren and trying to show it the kindness and care it never found before.

Maybe she didn't—or didn't want to—see the parallels. Maybe it didn't matter. All I knew was that she had _definitely _come a long way from the shaved, tattooed, scantily-clad ball of biotic fury I'd sprung from Purgatory once upon a time. Looking at her now, I couldn't help but feel a little proud. And I didn't need her acknowledgement to prove it. "Never mind," I finally said. "Forget I said anything."

Jack promptly bent down and began enthusiastically petting Eezo. "Yeah," she cooed. "Who's my badass biotic? Who's my badass biotic?" She laughed in delight as the varren slobbered all over her face.

From where I stood, Eezo wasn't the only big ol' softy in the room.

* * *

I later found out the reason for the unexpected visit: turned out there was a pet grooming shop on the Citadel that was outside the Silversun Strip, still in business and was willing to take in varren. Jack only found out about it at the last minute and wanted to drop Eezo off for some TLC before going to the arena. However, she didn't know how long it would take and didn't want to keep me waiting. Very thoughtful of her.

That being said, the lineup didn't take nearly as long as the goodbye. After the third straight minute of 'Who's my badass biotic,' I was tempting to scan her for drugs—or nauseatingly high levels of glucose. Eventually she relented, we left Eezo in the good hands of the staff and we were off to shoot holograms.

Armax Arsenal Arena was a tall two-story structure, sporting a sleek metal exterior and a big-ass neon sign. The scant number of guests and the flurry of discount ads suggested they weren't seeing a ton of business. At least that would mean fewer witnesses gawking at the 'great Commander Shepard'.

At least, that was what I thought until I reached the ticket booth. "I'm sorry, sir," the attendant said. Did you say your name was _Charles Shepard_? As in _Commander Charles Shepard_?"

"Yes," I replied slowly.

"Um… could I see some ID?"

I handed it over. She looked at it. Looked at me. Squeaked. Handed back my ID with shaking hands. Then she ran away.

"Weird," Jack said. "What did you do?"

"I have no idea," I admitted.

The attendant came back with a male turian. "Commander Shepard," the latter beamed. "I'm Toran Demetrius, manager of Armax Arsenal Arena. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you. I do apologize for the confusion."

"Confusion?" I blinked.

"You were upgraded to our Platinum Club, Commander Shepard. Normally our members receive e-mail invitation and confirmation, but yours must have gotten lost. Again, I do apologize. Here's your gym bag. You'll find a full track suit and athletic shoes inside. All customized and complimentary, of course. You'll also find a datapad with your membership application—preapproved, of course—and instructions on how to download our app. You'll find the app very handy, Commander Shepard. It's compatible with omni-tools, personal computers and other devices. You can use it to book reservations with the arena, track your scores and get e-mails on our various promotions."

"That all sounds great, Mr. Demetrius," I said politely. "Thank you much."

"You're very welcome, Commander Shepard," Demetrius beamed. "Now, shall I escort you to the locker room?"

"Thank you, but I believe I can find my own way," I demurred.

I had to endure several more minutes of praise and appreciation, a short speech about all the good things Armax Arsenal was doing for the galaxy and several repetitions of 'Commander Shepard', before Demetrius finally departed. Glancing over at Jack, I saw her smirking at me. "Don't say a word," I warned.

"Wow, Commander Shepard. Look at you getting the star treatment and everything!"

"Shut up, Jack."

"Hey Commander Shepard, will you sign an autograph for me? Maybe an omni-tattoo—I'm sure I can find a spot that hasn't been inked yet."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up."

Once she got bored of making my life miserable, Jack went to set up the simulator. I went up the stairs and took a look around. The upper floor was essentially one giant ring. The 'inner' section had four sets of stairs—north, east, south and west—leading to entrances into a central rectangular chamber on the ground floor where the 'fighting' would take place. Spectators got to view the ersatz carnage below from the comfort of the balcony seats or, for the privileged few, a set of private booths.

I paid more attention to the 'outer' section. To my left was an information board, a food kiosk and an infirmary—presumably because simulated combat had proved too dangerous for some players. On my right was an Armax Arsenal store and a list of scores. Despite the lack of customers and spectators, it seemed like it had seen some business. Aria T'Loak apparently had the highest score (6112), followed by her batarian minion Bray (5319), Barla Von (4910. Now I knew this was simulated combat. Volus weren't exactly known for their combat prowess) and Bailey (3987, possibly Commander Bailey working out his frustrations from too many C-Sec administrative duties). Matriarch Aethyta was in 7th place (2708) and Al-Jilani (reporter Khalisah Al-Jilani, perhaps, with 2012) was in 8th. As I passed the scoreboard, I overheard a few people arguing. From what I gathered, Barla Von had a team 'fighting' under his name, which made a bit more sense.

Jack came back before I could eavesdrop any more. "Okay, I've got us set up. Locker rooms are that way," she pointed to my right. "They've got all sorts of replica armour and weapons to choose along the way. Pick your poison and meet me in the simulator when you're ready."

I followed her directions and soon found myself outside an armour bay and weapon bench. Deciding to go with what worked in the past; I selected a N7 Armour chassis, swapped the helmet for an Archon Visor and replaced everything else with parts from Rosenkov Materials. For my weapons of choice, I chose a N7 Valiant sniper rifle for distance shooting—my favourite kind of fight—along with an M-12 Locust submachine gun—because I'd probably need to move around. Grabbing a few grenades for good measure, I brought my haul to the locker, quickly changed and headed into the simulator.

The walls were comprised of flat screens, currently set to display a volcanic landscape. Cloudy skies, mountainous terrain, streaks of lava—that sort of thing. Not surprisingly, the simulator floor itself had an upper tier sprinkled with barricades and a lower, central tier that was basically a flat floor with a smattering of fist-sized rocks. In one corner, a quartet of asari statues stood underneath a large overhead scoreboard.

Not surprisingly, Jack was impatiently waiting. I saw she had chosen an M-5 Phalanx heavy pistol and an M-300 Claymore shotgun, in keeping with her preference to get up close and personal. "About time," she greeted me.

"Let's make sure we're on the same comm frequency," I replied. "I figure you'll be in front while I cover your six, but we'll need to coordinate once that plan falls apart."

"Fine, if you wanna take the boring approach."

We got ourselves synchronized just in time. _"Ladies and gentlemen," _the VI announced over the PA, _"it's combat night in the Armax Arsenal Arena!"_

Drones materialized over our heads, each displaying a miniature holographic scoreboard. A siren began blaring overhead. "This is it!" Jack grinned.

"_Five… four…"_

As the VI counted down, I found myself grinning back. Especially once I spotted the first wave of Cerberus hostiles. A mix of Centurions—judging by the energy signature of their shields—and Guardians—recognizable by the tell-tale riot shields they lugged like law enforcement wannabes. I nudged Jack and pointed them out. She immediately ran towards them while I found a nice spot to fire at least one or two long-distance rounds.

"_Three… two… one… starting round one."_

I started off by zapping a Centurion's shields with an EMP. Then I aimed my sniper rifle at a Guardian and fired. The round went through the slit in his shield and into his head. First kill! Booyah!

Not that I could rest on my laurels: Jack could handle the Centurion, but there were two more Guardians and another Centurion trying to flank her. Well, two could play that game. Activating my cloak, I snuck around them and launched a fireball. As my cloak disengaged, I pulled out my Locust and opened fire.

"_Kill streak," _the drones called out, informing us—and whoever was watching—that Jack and I had each scored two kills. I would later find out that kill streaks—and the resulting bonus points—began accruing whenever a player took out enemies within five seconds of the last kill. All I knew was that we still had one more Centurion. Jack hit him with her biotics, momentarily knocking him off balance. Before he could recover, I charged forward, ignited an omni-blade and plunged it right through his heart.

Not that he had a heart, because he was just a hologram. Sure felt real, though.

My HUD picked up two more hostiles on the other side of the room. Jack and I started by targeting a Centurion who had crept a little too far forward in his eagerness to engage us. I took out his shields with an EMP and a burst of submachine gunfire. Once he was defenceless, Jack pulled him up into the air, where he spun around helplessly while Jack riddled his body full of holes from her pistol. While she entertained herself, I switched to my sniper rifle and took out the other Centurion.

"_Round one is over."_

We had a few seconds to catch our breath and consider availing ourselves of the medi-gel packs strategically scattered throughout the simulator. Not that we needed it, but it was good to know we could heal ourselves if we had to. Since we were in reasonably good health and had actually seen real combat, we opted for reloading our weapons.

"_Five... four… three… two… one… round two."_

Another squad of Centurions and Guardians spawned on the other end of the simulator. I deployed another EMP before picking up my sniper rifle and firing headshots. Jack resorted to her pistol, knowing it would be more effective at this range. In response, the hostiles deployed smoke grenades. "Shit!" Jack cried out. "Where'd they go?"

"We gotta move," I said, switching to my submachine gun. "They'll be using the smoke and the cover to get closer. We stay put and wait for them to show themselves…"

"…then we're sitting ducks," Jack realized. She hopped to her feet and followed me as I scuttled over to a nearby barricade.

"If you see any Guardians, use your biotics to pull their shields away so we can pick them off," I instructed. "Preferably at a distance. If we run into Centurions, I'll do my best to drain their shields with EMPs and rapid fire."

"And I'll finish them off with a shotgun to the head," Jack grinned.

That plan worked for the first Guardian: Jack yanked his shield out of his hand and I fired a few carefully-aimed bursts at his head. One down, too many more to go. Then I saw a Centurion emerge from the smoke. I did my part and waited for Jack to do hers.

Unfortunately, she was pinned down by another Centurion who was firing at us from the other side. Classic pincer manoeuvre. If we stayed put, we were done for. If we tried to move, we were done for.

So I decided to change the rules using my handy-dandy cloak. "Hold tight," I told Jack. "I'm gonna sneak behind them."

Sure it meant the Centurions would gang up on Jack, since she was the only target they could see. But it bought me time to switch to my sniper rifle. Two shots finished off the Centurion I had gone after—earning me another kill streak. The last shot missed, as the Centurion dodged aside. But Jack, anticipating where he'd go, managed to get there first. Her first shot took out his shields. Her second blew his head off. That's the kind of thing that happens when you fire a shotgun at point-blank range.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted another pair of hostiles come around the corner. The Guardian was in the lead, holding his shield up to protect him and his Centurion partner. As I turned to face them, I saw a red beam cut through the smoke. "Sniper!" I yelled. "Get down!"

Jack dove for cover, seconds before the sniper round from the Nemesis would have drilled a hole through her head. "God damn it!" she spat.

More contacts popped up on my HUD. I leaned out of cover long enough to get a quick peek. "A Centurion and a Guardian on the left; a similar pair on the right," I reported. "I'll go left, you go right. Whoever takes out their pair first can go after the Nemesis sniper."

"Got it."

I went back to my submachine gun and launched an EMP at the Centurion. It didn't completely drain his shields, but a few bursts of submachine gun fire finished the job. I was under fire by that point, so I ducked out of sight and scuttled to the side. By that point, my omni-tool was ready to dish out some piping hot plasma. So I indulged my inner pyromaniac and set the Centurion on fire. It took some effort to ignore the Guardian, but I focused on the Centurion and riddled him with bullets. As soon as he went down, I activated my cloak. Then I snuck behind him, ignited an omni-blade and thrust right through the heart. According to that annoying drone floating overhead, that earned me a kill streak. Go me.

While I was going all medieval, Jack seemed to have things under control. She'd taken out the Guardian and was having a little too much fun tearing the Centurion apart. Seeing how she wouldn't be finished any time soon, I went after the Nemesis. I launched another fireball and saw it splash against the sniper's shields. The small bit of damage it dealt was a nice bonus, but the main intent was to pin her down while I cloaked again. I ran around the arena, came up behind her and went stabby-stabby with my omni-blade again. Because getting up close and personal worked so well the last time.

When I looked up, I wondered if Jack was losing her touch. She was retreating under the relentless barrage of fire from another Centurion/Guardian team up. Didn't she put down at least one of them? Then I saw the bodies and realized this was a new pair of hostiles. One that hadn't seen me yet. Which meant I could surprise them with an EMP and my submachine gun.

As soon as they turned around, Jack made her move. She tackled the Guardian to the ground, jammed her pistol into his face and executed the sorry bastard. While she was distracted, I dealt with the Centurion and looked for any other threats.

Apparently the simulation had decided to hold the big guns for last. And by big guns, I mean a freaking Atlas. Now some people would freeze at the sight of a lumbering anime reject brought to life. Not me. I automatically launched an EMP, raise my submachine gun and opened fire until my clip was empty. Not having time to reload, I began lobbing grenades. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack alternating between biotics and pistol shots, both being more effective at this range than a shotgun.

Eventually, the Atlas had enough. Raising its mass accelerator cannon, it fired a single shot. Jack and I scurried out of the way and ran to another piece of cover. I ducked down and reloaded.

Jack, naturally, had other ideas. Standing out in the open, she glared at the Atlas. "I'm gonna beat you 'till candy comes out!" she shouted.

And there was an image I really didn't need in my noggin. I'd tell her to watch her language for the sake of her stud—oh, who was I kidding? She'd already corrupted them.

"Hah!" Jack cried. Thrusting her hand forward and a biotic bolt burst from her palm and flew into the Atlas. Undeterred, the Atlas returned fire. They exchanged a couple volleys before the Atlas launched a rocket. _That_ forced Jack to duck.

"Damn," she grinned, "it's nice to relax. Just cutting loose, not worrying about the kids…"

"It's worth the stress and aggravation to watch the people you're commanding come into their own, though," I returned.

"Shut up," Jack said, glaring at me.

"Who said I was talking about you?" I asked innocently.

This time, Jack clued in to what I was really getting at. "Yeah, yeah, you rubbed off on me. Happy now?"

"Happier if we could drop the innuendo and focus on the Atlas," I replied. "I'll cloak and hit it with my sniper rifle. You handle the biotics."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Count us down from three," I ordered.

"Right," she nodded. "Three… two… one… go, go, go!"

We fired in unison. The double strike proved too much. The Atlas visibly sagged before it exploded into smithereens.

Standing up, Jack trotted down the stairs towards the centre of the arena. I holstered my weapons before hurrying to join her. "You know," she said when I caught up to her, "if there is a god, _that's_ what she sounds like. Just a big deep BWOMMM to let you know everything's gonna be okay."

"Normally I'd say we clearly have different takes on divine intervention," I replied, "but I see your point."

"Of course you would," she beamed. "Thanks for coming, Shepard."

"Wouldn't have missed it, Jack," I smiled. "Now what say we get out of this fake gear and see how Eezo's doing?"

"You're on."


	7. Shepard versus the First Impression

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 7: Shepard versus the First Impression**

Today was a big day for the galaxy, according to all the news stories floating around the extranet. And while I'm the first to admit you can't believe everything you read and hear at first blush, this time they had a point. Because today was the day they sent a dozen dreadnoughts through the mass relays from the Exodus Cluster to the Serpent Nebula. All twelve ships arrived on time, in one piece, and only forty thousand kilometres off-course.

So what, you ask? We used to do that all the time without any fanfare, didn't we? Well, yes, we did. But that was before we ended the Reaper War by sending a massive energy surge throughout the entire Milky Way galaxy via the mass relays. That energy surge might have destroyed the Reapers once and for all, but it also caused serious damage to the mass relay network. It had taken months to repair them, and even then we weren't sure if we'd done it correctly. Hence why intergalactic travel through the mass relays had been restricted to essential traffic only—diplomatic vessels, military starships, cargo freighters carrying food and needed supplies, that kind of thing. Even then, travel had been restricted to one vessel at a time. The risk of overtaxing the mass relays and causing them to fail was too high. Most people were pretty understanding, given the circumstances.

But that was then. Now, people were suffering. Their cities, colonies and planets were suffering. They needed more of, well, everything and they needed it yesterday. They needed to get back to some semblance of normal. So the Citadel Council began authorizing a gradual increase in mass relay traffic, contingent on the results of test flights like this one. Thankfully, each one had been a smashing success.

There was another reason to celebrate, though. I mean, yeah, it was great that we were finally moving to the next phase of post-war galactic recovery. But another big consequence of this particular success is that we were one step closer to moving the Citadel back to its original location in the Serpent Nebula. Sending ships, even ships as large as a dreadnought, through the mass relay was one thing. Sending a giant space station spanning 44.7 kilometres in length and weighing 7.11 billion metric tonnes was another thing entirely. It was a theoretical possibility, of course, but no one had ever dared to try it before. Now we knew it could be done. The Reapers had proven it. And if it could be done once, it could be done again.

And there was growing pressure to make that second journey. See, there were crackpot theories floating around that humanity—you know, those impatient, aggressive newbies who caused so much trouble—was behind some vast conspiracy to keep the Citadel floating around Earth. Why, you ask? To milk every last drop of political advantage possible and put humanity on top of the galactic food chain. That's bullshit, of course. No one with an iota of common sense or rationality truly believed it. But common sense and rationality were in short supply these days. Hell, they were rare commodities even before the Reapers showed up.

Beneath all the exaggerations and misinformation, there was actually a small kernel of truth: that being a reason to bring the Citadel back to the Serpent Nebula. Partly because the Serpent Nebula was home to many mass relays connecting to several parts of the galaxy, which made it a major hub, if not _the_ hub, of galactic activity. More importantly, it was neutral ground. The Serpent Nebula didn't fall in asari space. Or salarian. Or turian. Or human. Or drell, elcor, hanar, volus, batarian, geth, krogan, quarian, vorcha or any other race in the Milky Galaxy. It didn't belong to anyone. Or, depending on how you looked at things, it belonged to everyone. You couldn't say the same about the Sol system. As long as the Citadel remained in orbit over Earth, there would always be the perception that humanity had an oversized influence on the decisions of the Citadel Council and the outcome of galactic affairs.

But if the symbolism of having the Citadel in humanity's birthplace was potentially problematic, the symbolism of sending the Citadel through the mass relays and having it emerge in a trillion pieces—or, worse, not emerge at all—was absolutely disastrous. Hence the importance of taking things slow. Hence the importance of not taking the next step until we were ready. The latest test flight had proven we were ready. Where we went from here… well, I guess we'd have to see.

Until then, there was always electronic mail. Like this one:

_Subject: Drinks?_

_From: Garrus_

_Shepard,_

_When you have a free moment, I thought we'd check out the bar scene around here. Let's meet at the Silver Coast Casino, upper floor. Hopefully no dead arms dealers or clones this time!_

I'm sure Garrus thought he was being funny. Still, a quiet night at the bar sounded like a good idea.

* * *

There was something different about the Silver Coast Casino. Granted, I'd only been here a few times, but something felt… off. And it had to do with the crowd on the ground floor.

Half of them were human—Alliance military, judging by their posture. There were just as many turians—also military, if I had to guess. There might have been the odd asari or salarian, but the vast majority were human or turian. And no one was relaxed. In fact, the tension was thick enough that you could cut it with an omni-blade. The staff had picked up on that, as they stayed only as long as it took to do their job and left without any socializing or chit-chat. Something was going on.

Garrus arrived before I could speculate any further. He paused long enough to turn his head back and forth—also sensing that something was amiss—before going upstairs. As he crossed the dance floor to join me, I couldn't help but notice the female turian—probably military as well, despite her civilian dress—who stopped dancing, turned to watch him pass by, then followed him to the bar.

"Shepard," Garrus said as he sat down next to me.

"Garrus," I returned, noting that the female turian conveniently chose the seat on Garrus's left.

"Everything all right?"

"Crowd downstairs seems a bit on edge," I shrugged.

Garrus shook his head. "I felt the same. That's why I'm glad we were meeting up here."

"Oh good. Here, I thought I was overly sensitive from the last time I was here."

"This about Khan? Or Brooks and that clone of yours?"

"What? No. I was thinking of Wrex. Met him here a short time ago. Seems the poor guy ran away from Tuchanka."

"You're kidding," Garrus scoffed. "Why?"

"To get away from the hordes of krogan females who want to get knocked up by the leader of Clan Urdnot."

"You're kidding," Garrus repeated.

"I'm not. Seems curing the genophage made him _very _popular with the ladies. Poor guy's worn out from all the sex."

"You're. kidding."

"I'm not. Some of those females followed him to the Citadel. They tracked him down at the Silver Coast Casino. We led them on a merry chase before finally giving them the slip." I decided to skip the part where one of the females had declared an interest in yours truly. That would just muddy the waters.

It took a few seconds, but Garrus eventually picked his mandibles off the floor. "So where's Mister Popularity?"

"Eagerly diving into meetings, conferences and functions with the Council and various diplomats. Anything to put a closed door or a C-Sec protective detail between him and any more krogan females."

"It's a dirty job," Garrus said with a straight face, "but someone has to do it. Who came up with that idea?"

"Miranda."

"Figures. Well, if I knew about that, I might've suggested another venue. Plenty of reputable bars with decent food and drinks."

"Probably plenty of disreputable bars too," I said dryly.

"Absolutely. There's a quiet hole-in-the-wall named Khar'shan's Edge. Cheap drinks, lousy service, probably violates a dozen Citadel safety codes. Customers only go there when they're down on their luck, desperate, borderline-certifiable… or want to be left alone.

"How tempting," I said sarcastically. "But I think I'll pass."

"It's actually not that bad," Garrus insisted. "Kinda reminds me of Nowhere—that's a quiet bar on Omega. It isn't nearly as popular or as infamous as Afterlife, but you can sit down and have a drink in peace without worrying about Aria or her goons breathing down your neck."

"I'll have to take your word for it," I said. "Though I think it'll be a while before we can fly all the way over to Omega, much less for drinks. Now then: enough about Wrex's not-so-little black book or all the dodgy bars you seem to know. What do turians usually do with their time off?"

"Mostly we make plans for what to do when we're back at work," Garrus replied. "I have some ideas on the Normandy's forward cannon."

Clearly Garrus—and possibly most turians—had never heard the human saying about all work and no play. Sadly, I could imagine Garrus having nothing better to do with his time than thinking about guns, upgrading guns and—above all else—calibrating guns. "You know what you need, Garrus?" I asked.

"That Mark-4 silencer scope I saw at the gun shop?"

"Wait, there's a Mark-4 sil—no," I shook my head. "No, that's not what I meant. I was thinking a date. How're you and…" I trailed off when I saw the look on Garrus's face. "Oh no," I groaned. "What did you do?"

"Why do you assume it was _me_?"

"Garrus."

"Fine. I found out Tali was installing, uninstalling and reinstalling a suit app called 'Nerve-Stim Pro'. Apparently I asked her one too many questions about it. One thing led to another and… now she's not returning any of my calls."

Well, that was… awkward. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Honestly? It's kinda why I suggested we go out for drinks."

He wanted to get his mind off things. Okay. I looked around for inspiration… and saw the female turian again. Normally I wouldn't suggest Garrus try getting back into the dating scene when he was on the rebound, but what the hell? It wasn't like he and Tali were an item or anything—apparently they hadn't gone on a date during the months I spent comatose or suffering through physical therapy, so it wasn't like I was encouraging him to cheat on her. Maybe what Garrus needed was a good time to shake him out of his funk. What could go wrong?

Before I could think about it and consider why this might be a really bad idea, I stood up and walked to the other turian. "Excuse me. I saw you checking out my friend here. I thought you two should meet."

Then I walked away and left them to it. Garrus turned around in confusion, saw the female… and froze.

"Hello," she said politely.

"Right, so um… hmm. Hello. And… hmm."

Despite my limited experience in flirting, dating and other romantic pursuits, even _I_ knew that this was not a good start. I casually activated my comm. "Tell her she looks nice," I whispered.

"You seem like a nice person. Maybe a little quiet. Introspective, but decent overall."

'Nice'. 'Quiet'. 'Introspective but decent overall'. Oh boy. Maybe this was a really bad idea.

The female turian was similarly underwhelmed by Garrus and his not-so-silver tongue. "Oh," she managed. "Thank you… I think."

Really bad idea: meet train wreck. "Try small talk," I suggested over the comm. Because, really, things couldn't get any worse.

"Come here often? I imagine anyone who does is probably an alcoholic."

Holy shit! Did he just say… how the hell was he so _bad _at this? I mean, I thought I sucked at romance but, compared to Garrus, I was a genuine Don Juan!

"Actually, this is my first time here. I've just been assigned to a new post and, well, I needed one last night of freedom. I have a feeling it'll be a while before I get another chance to blow off steam."

"Oh. Um… huh. Right."

Garrus continued stumbling through monosyllabic words for the next ten seconds. If this was the kind of charm he'd unleashed on Tali, it was no wonder she was blocking his calls.

"Yeah," the female turian interrupted, standing up. "Well, listen. I've got this… thing I forgot I had to do, and… I should probably just go do it."

At this point, I was ready to throw in the towel. I mean, there was no way I could possibly salvage this. Suicide mission, sure. Lead an intergalactic war effort against the Reapers, okay. But save Garrus from himself? Sorry, no, I had clearly met my match.

And then I saw the drunk turian weaving back and forth with a bottle of beer in each hand.

Without a word, I snatched one of his bottles and slid it towards Garrus. One last Hail Mary…

He caught it. Took a breath.

"Sorry. Let's start over again. What I've been trying to say is: My name's Garrus, and I'd love to have a drink with you."

Miracle of miracles: Garrus could speak. In whole sentences. Without insulting anyone or shooting himself in the foot.

"All right," the female turian replied after a moment. "One drink. I'm Decima."

"Pleased to meet you, Decima," Garrus said.

Maybe this would turn out okay after all. I started to relax.

Then I felt a telltale tingling on the back of my neck. I looked around nervously. And then I heard it: that gradually swelling babble of voices that grew louder and louder into a roar. It had been a while, but I knew a bar fight when I heard one. The curses and sounds of breaking glass confirmed it.

"Spirits!" Decima cursed. "So much for my night of freedom."

We went to the balcony and looked down at the chaos below. Sure enough, the entire main floor had broken out into one giant brawl. Humans and turians were going at it, punching, kicking and flailing at one another. On my left, a human female was wailing away on a surprisingly short male turian. On my right, another turian was in the midst of tackling a human. Any military discipline I might've sensed earlier had gone straight out the airlock, leaving nothing but fury and bloodlust.

Casino security was quick to arrive, but it was clear that they were out of their element. They were used to dealing with cheaters and con artists, not soldiers with military experience and a collective axe to grind. Still, they did their best to break up the various scuffles that had broken out. For a brief moment, there was a glimmer of hope.

Then it all went horribly wrong. One of the casino guards pulled a human away before she could knee her turian adversary in the groin. Ignoring the blood streaming from her nose, she responded with a swift uppercut to the jaw. Before the guard could recover, the turian unexpectedly grabbed a nearby bottle, smashed it against the table, and struck. The spray of arterial blood was visible even from the balcony.

Within seconds, both humans and turians turned on the casino guards, united in their shared bloodlust and a common enemy. They overwhelmed over the poor bastards before they knew what hit them. In all my years of combat, I'd seen swarms of rachni and husks charge forward. Somehow, this seemed worse.

Without saying a word, Garrus and I ran towards the stairs. "C-Sec?" I asked him rhetorically.

"Won't get here in time," he replied.

Great. So the two of us were going to charge downstairs and throw ourselves into the fray in the vain hopes of doing… something. Maybe we had suffered more brain damage from the war than we thought. That thought flickered briefly before fading as we raced down the stairs—

—and came to a sudden halt as a sharp whistle pierced the air. Everyone froze and turned their head towards the woman who had somehow captured our collective attention.

It was Decima. "Stand down," she said. She'd barely raised her voice, yet it carried throughout the room. "All of you. Now."

She stared down the brawlers for a moment before snapping her talons at a random turian soldier. "You there. Get a broom."

Of all the things she could have said, that was not it. The turian stared at her. So did everyone else.

"That was not a request, soldier. You, you and you—go with him. Bring back as many mops and buckets as you can find. No one is leaving until this establishment has been cleaned up."

She directed that second command to a trio of humans and turians. Up until this moment, the former had been beating the latter to a pulp. They bristled at the idea of an upstart turian who had the audacity to boss them around. Some of the other humans felt the same.

Seconds passed by as Decima stood fast. Her face, her body language, stayed firm and resolute. Both conveyed utter confidence, complete authority and the certainty that her orders would be carried out. Gradually, a mixture of confusion, nervousness and uncertainty swept throughout the mob—human and turian alike—as they began to realize how badly the situation had gotten out of hand.

I took a step forward, banking on the fact that some of them would recognize my ugly mug. Sure enough, I saw a flicker of recognition here and there. I didn't say a word, though. Decima had established her authority over the rabble in less than a minute. The last thing she needed was me to undermine that by trading on my reputation. Instead, I just stood there in silence, relying on my presence to quell any lingering bloodlust while silently backing her up.

"You have your orders," Decima said at last. "Clean this mess up. On the double!" Her last three words were delivered with the sharpness and confidence of a drill sergeant. As I watched, ingrained patterns of discipline reasserted themselves and both humans and turians fell into line. By the time C-Sec arrived, most of the damage had been tidied up. Not content with a simple cleanup, Decima had organized details to escort the wounded—and worse—to the nearest infirmary.

"Well done," Garrus said in admiration.

"Not well enough," Decima shook her head. "It should never have come to this."

Other people, however, seemed to share Garrus's opinion. "I still can't believe it," I overheard one of the pit bosses whisper to a nearby bartender. "She just stood there and stared them down, every single one of them."

"Amazing!"

Their voices faded away, lost in the general murmur. "Bad as it might be, you turned things around," I said. "By the way, I never introduced myself. Commander Shepard."

"I thought you looked familiar," she replied. "Colonel Decima Fidelis. Thank you for your assistance."

* * *

"This was not what I had planned for tonight," Garrus said wryly.

"I should hope not," Decima retorted. "No one should 'plan' on getting mixed up in a bar fight. I certainly did not. I would have been perfectly happy having a simple drink, listening to your feeble attempts at flirting—"

"Hey!"

"—and enjoying a quiet night before figuring out what to do with them tomorrow."

The three of us had found a nearby pub to settle down and share a drink. We couldn't very well spend the rest of the evening at the Silver Coast Casino. C-Sec had shut it down for the night while they processed the crime scene. As for the human and turian soldiers, anyone who wasn't recuperating under armed guard in the local infirmary had been rounded up and dumped in the drunk tank until they sobered up. And to top it off, I'd just finished another conversation from an irritated Commander Bailey, who couldn't believe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time… again. Under the circumstances, I couldn't blame him.

Decima's last words stayed with me. "What do you mean, 'figuring out what to do with them'?" I asked.

"I'm their new commanding officer."

"Both of them?" Garrus asked. "Human _and _turian."

"That's right," she nodded. "I've been assigned to command the Alliance 296th/Turian 301st Regiment."

"Yeesh," I winced. "That's a mouthful. How did that happen?"

"Both regiments were on the front lines during the Reaper War," Decima began. "They spent the entire time fighting for their lives with unreliable supply lines and no reinforcements against overwhelming odds. Quite frankly, it's a miracle they weren't wiped out. As it stood, every surviving unit in the 296th and the 301st suffered at least fifty percent casualties by the time the war was over."

"Hang on," I said. "Back up a sec. Combining below-strength units is standard practice in the Alliance."

"Makes sense," Garrus chimed in. "The Hierarchy does the same."

"But why amalgamate an Alliance regiment with a Hierarchy regiment?" I wondered.

"From what I've gathered so far," Decima sighed, "various ambassadors and military officers thought it would be a good idea to have a multi-species regiment that had equal representation from all the Council races. Something more permanent than a joint task force."

"That's… actually a good idea," I said slowly.

"It's a great idea," Decima growled, "except neither the asari nor the salarians are onboard. At least, they have yet to offer any soldiers or resources of any kind. So when the bureaucrats found out that there were two half-strength regiments, one human and one turian, they decided to mash them together and call it a day. I doubt those imbeciles considered the history behind the 296th or the 301st, the traditions they'd established and how demoralizing it was for them to be pulverized by the Reapers. I _know_ none of them had the military experience to realize how devastating the merger would be on what was left of their morale. Maybe if they traded their datapads for riflesand spent a few months slogging through the mud, they'd realize what the hell they'd done."

"Assuming they didn't get a bullet in the back first," I said darkly. "When did this amalgamation take place?"

"About two months ago."

"And who was in charge?"

"Oh, that's the other good news. Virtually all of the command staff in both regiments had been killed during the war. The surviving officers didn't have the experience needed to lead a regiment, much less a multi-species regiment. As a result, most of the day-to-day decisions fell to some Alliance admiral. Goes by the name of Zhao, I think."

Aw, crap. I recognized the name. "Admiral Zhao. Well, isn't that… surprising."

"I take it you recognize the name," Garrus guessed, seeing the look of horror on my face.

"Yup," I shuddered. "Terrible temper, borderline megalomaniac and ambitious to boot. He's the kind of guy who thinks that any enemy, no matter how formidable, can be ground to a bloody pulp if you throw enough grunts at them. People still talk about how he led a retaliatory strike on Torfan against the pirates and slavers who masterminded the Skyllian Blitz, mostly because he used the infantry forces under his command as cannon fodder."

"Torfan," Garrus repeated. "Torfan… wait a second. This Admiral Zhao… is he the man they call the Butcher of Torfan?"

"Uh huh," I nodded. "Though he was a commander at the time. Maybe there's some other Alliance soldier named Zhao who got promoted to admiral. It's possible."

Decima shook her head, dashing any last hopes I might have had. "No, the Butcher of Torfan is now an admiral now. I checked."

"God help us all," I groaned. "So what're you going to do?"

"I have some ideas," Decima admitted, but I'd like to get your opinion. Both of you," she added for Garrus's benefit. "After all, the two of you worked together for years without clawing each others' eyes out. You must have made it work somehow. So I'd like to—what is the human saying? Pick your cranium?"

"'Pick your brain'," I corrected, "but close enough. Well, let's see now…"


	8. Shepard versus the Prize

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 8: Shepard versus the Prize**

My encounter with Colonel Decima Fidelis stuck with me long after Garrus's hilariously inept attempts at flirting were interrupted by an all-out brawl between human and turian soldiers in the ad-hoc human/turian regiment she'd been tasked with commanding. It sounded like she had her work cut out for her.

However, that wasn't the main reason why I couldn't stop thinking about that night. The main reason lay in the revelation that a thoroughly unpleasant and arrogant man named Zhao had been promoted to Admiral and had contributed to the demoralized state of the amalgamated regiment Fidelis was now leading. How the hell did that happen and was there anything I could do about it?

It was easier to find out the answer to the second question: probably not. As an Alliance officer, I had very little recourse. First, an admiral outranked a commander—even a staff commander such as myself. Second, I wasn't serving under Zhao's command. Third, I didn't have any evidence or data to request a formal investigation. That left me very little recourse other than to file a complaint. If I did it through Alliance channels, it would inevitably get lost in bureaucratic hell. If I complained publicly as an Alliance hero, all that would do is make a few headlines—which would be forgotten in time—and put me at the top of Zhao's shit list. It wouldn't do much to actually change the situation.

How about as a Spectre? Well, contrary to popular belief, Spectres are charged with preserving galactic stability, not doing whatever the hell they want. For the most part, Zhao's ire and wasteful behaviour impacted Alliance soldiers, which meant his antics were considered an Alliance matter rather than a matter of galactic stability. How about the demoralizing and potentially destructive influence on the Alliance/Hierarchy Whatever-the-heck-it-was-called Regiment? It was an Alliance and Hierarchy matter, not one of galactic stability.

I could try to cash in a favour or two. After all the grief I'd been through and all the times I jumped into suicidal encounters on someone else's behalf, you'd think someone would owe me. I suppose I could always ask the Citadel Council. I had saved their collective lives. Twice. But even I had to admit asking them to sideline Zhao was a big ask. Unless I had some evidence that Zhao's actions had broadened to impact the galaxy as a whole, I couldn't justify petitioning the Citadel Council to intervene, much less launch an investigation as a Spectre. Openly complaining as a Spectre would do nothing but make a few quickly-forgotten headlines, put me on the top of Zhao's shit list and use up any good will and patience I'd earned with the Council.

And no, I wasn't about to shoot Zhao in the head or set him on fire. Playing around with lethal instruments of death on the battlefield is one thing. Killing a man in cold blood—even if he wouldn't be missed—is another.

But as for my first question, I found my answer in an e-mail from my mother:

_Subject: It's Mom. _

_From: Hannah Shepard_

_Sweetheart,_

_It's been a while since I last saw you at Huerta Memorial. I heard you were discharged… and then something happened? Something no one will talk about. Could you call me please when you get a chance? I would love to talk to you._

_Mom_

So I got on the comm, opened a secure channel and gave her a call. It took me a few minutes, but I eventually got through. _"Hannah Shepard here."_

"Hi, Mom."

"_Oh, honey. It's so good to hear your voice." _

"Same here. And thanks again for sneaking in that mint chocolate chip ice cream."

"_My pleasure. Now what happened after you were discharged?"_

"This is a secure channel, right?"

"_It is on my end."_

Okay. I wasn't sure if that mattered—I hadn't gotten any official orders from the Council or Alliance brass to keep things on the down low—but I certainly didn't want any random person eavesdropping on this conversation. "Okay," I said. "Here's what happened."

I didn't give her a blow-by-blow account, but she got the gist of things: identity theft, attempt on my life by mercs, investigating a lead that wound up with a dead casino owner, fighting my way through the Citadel Archives, discovering this was all orchestrated by a clone with a huge chip on his shoulder and a narcissistic ex-Cerberus operative and thwarting an attempt to steal my ship.

"_You know," _Mom finally said, _"if I didn't know better, I'd say you were watching too many sci-fi vids again." _

"I wish. Oh, Mom?"

"_Yes?"_

"Since you're on the comm… I met this turian colonel the other night who mentioned that the Butcher of Torfan was now an admiral?"

"_That's right."_

"How did that happen?"

"_One of the tragedies of the Reaper War that isn't talked about all that often: the Alliance lost a lot of senior officers and someone needs to replace them."_

"But… Zhao? Why him?"

"_Officially? Zhao's had a long and impressive service record. And he knows how to rub elbows with the right people. As a result, he's been in line for promotion for a long time now._"

"But… _Zhao? _Has no one wondered why he's known as the Butcher of Torfan? Why would anyone think someone like that would be a good choice to put in command?" Then the first word in Mom's reply hit me. "What about unofficially?"

"_Unofficially, the infamy of his reputation does precede him. And there's a long list of observations, complaints and grievances cited against him. He was never actually chastised or reprimanded. You won't see any black marks in his file. But people have noticed. That's the real reason why he's been denied a promotion for so long."_

"Until now," I said flatly. "He's been promoted because too many admirals died and, somehow, there weren't enough qualified candidates. Oh, I almost forgot: he's got a lot of political pull, too. With who, though? I thought the Alliance Parliament was wiped out when the Reapers destroyed Arcturus Station?"

"_There were several members of Parliament scattered around the galaxy for one reason or another, some of whom survived the war. They've formed an interim government."_

"An interim government that relies on the Alliance to make most of the decisions, represent humanity in diplomatic functions and do most of the heavy lifting as far as galactic reconstruction is concerned," I rebutted. "The only thing they've done on their own is announce a sole-source contract with some charity to organize galactic aid efforts."

"_A charity that may or may not have invited the leader of the interim government to come to their events as a guest speaker. I know."_

"We can talk politics another time, Mom," I said. "So Zhao finally became an admiral because the Alliance cared more about filling spots with warm bodies than the rank-and-file?"

There was a long pause.

"_You can say that to me in private, Charles, because you're my son," _she cautioned_. "And I'll tell you right now that I agree with you one hundred percent. Just… be a little more careful when you're in public, all right?"_

"Noted," I bit out.

"_Good. Now about Zhao: yes, he was promoted to Rear Admiral just before the Reapers invaded. Rumour had it that he would get promoted to full Admiral after the war ended and be given command of one of the Alliance fleets."_

And here I thought my heart couldn't sink any lower. "God help us all. Which fleet?"

"_Funny you should ask…"_

Maybe there was hope for us yet.

"_Zhao was being considered to command the Eighth Fleet, but most of the ships were ambushed by Reaper forces at Ontarom. Technically, he was placed in command of the surviving ships, but Admiral Hackett gave him very strict marching orders. Specifically, Zhao was directed to harass the Reapers, protect any colonists who were fleeing Ontarom and defend the communications hub that had somehow remained intact. After the war ended, the Eighth Fleet was officially disbanded and the remaining ships were distributed amongst the First, Third and Fifth Fleets."_

Hope lived again!

"_The commanding admiral of the Sixth Fleet was about to retire before the war broke out. Zhao would have been the likely candidate to fill her shoes… only the entire Sixth Fleet was lost during Operation Return. There's been some thought given to reconstituting the Sixth Fleet and putting Zhao in command. Or the Eighth. Or the Second or Fourth. But realistically, the Alliance favours the idea of rebuilding what fleets we have left rather than trying to put any new fleets together." _

Man that was depressing. Half of the Alliance fleets had been completely wiped out, and the remaining half was at a fraction of their former strength. As if I needed another reminder of how much the Reaper War had cost us.

"_In the end, Zhao was given responsibility for a variety of Alliance companies, regiments and divisions. Over the last few months, though, that responsibility was reassigned to other admirals. I think he's only in charge of a handful of regiments now."_

I guess there was a God. Or Goddess. Whatever. "So what you're saying is… it could be worse?"

"_Pretty much."_

Well… great.

"_Gotta say, I wasn't expecting to talk about Zhao when I sent you that e-mail."_

"Heard the rumours about what I'd been up to after being discharged and was worried about how many of them were true?"

"_In a way. I… I just felt I needed to… I think about you every day. I try not to worry."_

Operative word being 'try'. Moms are like that. Drives me crazy sometimes. Deep down, though, when I wasn't stomping my feet and insisting I was a big boy now, I had to admit I wouldn't have it any other way.

"_The other day I was remembering the bedtime stories we used to make up. You had your own ship and crew. The stories were always filled with adventure and danger."_

"Oh yeah!" I chuckled. "Huh. Haven't thought about _that_ in a while." Probably because I'd spent the last several years lurching from one disaster to another like a drunken sailor.

"_Me neither," _Mom replied, her voice filled with mirth. _"You'd always swoop in to punish the bad guys and save the day. _

"_So… there you are. Even when you were little, you dreamed of the life you have." _

"Is that the reason you wanted me to call?"

"_No. I just want you to know that your father and I are proud of you, honey. _So _proud." _

I must confess I felt a lump in my throat. It's hard to express how lucky I was to have a family that actually took the time to worry about little ol' me. A family—biological and otherwise—who loved me, no matter how many times I screwed up. No matter how many times I failed. The universe might love to watch me suffer, but at least it had given me that much. "Thanks, Mom," I managed at last. "I love you too. Say hi to Dad for me."

"_I will, Charles. Bye for now."_

"Bye."

I was just about to turn off my computer when I heard the telltale ding of a new e-mail entering my inbox. Sure enough, I saw the following:

_Subject: Come hang out!_

_From: Jacob Taylor_

_Shepard,_

_So the Normandy's in dry dock and you're out of the hospital? Seems like the perfect chance to hang out and find some trouble. Meet me outside the arcade on the main level... if you're game._

Well I had to go see him. If nothing else, someone had to chastise him for tempting fate.

* * *

I thought I had gotten to the Castle Arcade early. It was the only one on the Silversun Strip and Anderson's apartment was only a couple minutes away on foot.

And yet, somehow, Jacob had already arrived first. "Hey," he called out. "Shepard. Over here."

Turning around, I saw him step out of the arcade. "Thanks for coming by," he said. "Good to see you. What's up?"

"Just enjoying some long-overdue R&R," I shrugged. "You?"

"Exactly," he nodded. "Same thing."

Before we could say anything else, a voice called out. "Hey, Jacob. I'm out of credits."

Looking around, I saw a couple of kids—a boy with dark brown skin and black hair and a girl with pale skin and... purple? violet? hair—running towards Jacob. He laughed and shook his head. "All right, all right." Digging into his pockets, he fished out ten credits and handed them to the girl. "Now don't go spending them…"

The two ran back inside without as much as a thank you.

"…in one place," Jacob finished.

"Who're they?" I asked.

"Their parents are MIA," he said, all amusement gone from his voice. "Volunteered to take them on for the weekend, get their mind off things."

"Military?"

"Yeah."

He didn't say anymore. He didn't have to: the Reaper War had been over for a while. If they hadn't come back or sent word by now, there was a good chance they never would.

"What about us, Shepard?" Jacob said in an obvious attempt to change the topic of conversation. "There's got to be a game of skill in there with our names on it."

"Let's do it," I nodded.

"Great!"

* * *

Castle Arcade was more or less the same as the arcades I'd spent _way _too much time in as a kid: neon lights blazing everywhere, a deafening barrage of noise from the various games and packed with people ready to spend their credits—or someone else's. Kinda like Omega or Illium, only way more cheerful and much less likely to end with a firefight.

Seeing how Jacob seemed to know where he was going, I let him take the lead. We ignored the claw game that had caused Zaeed so much grief. We ignored Relay Defence, which I only noticed because the high score was held by Thane's old contact Mouse. I was mildly relieved when he passed by Towers of Hanoi. I had to employ a sequence very similar to that game to reactivate a VI core during my first mission to Noveria. Considering how that mission resulted in killing a ton of rachni, several asari commandoes and Liara's indoctrinated mother… let's just say I didn't need the reminder.

Jacob confidently led us through the crowd until he finally came to a stop. I looked at the game in front of us and raised an eyebrow. "This is your game of skill? Shattered Eezo? I thought it had gone the way of the dodo bird."

Apparently nostalgia had brought it back, and it seemed to have enjoyed a resurgence in popularity. The top scores to date were Aria T'Loak herself (1024. First Armax Arsenal Arena, now this. She must've been _so _bored!), Jordan Noles (896), someone named 'Shifty Cow' (714), Al-Jilani (possibly Khalisah, also trying to fill time when she wasn't at Armax Arsenal, at 630), Barla Von (with 450, because being a financial adviser, a Shadow Broker agent and the sponsor of an Armax Arsenal team wasn't enough) and James Vega (256).

I didn't see Jacob's name anywhere, which made his response all the more surprising: "Now, Shepard," Jacob teased. "I'll try not to embarrass you."

"Really?" I sighed. "Trash talk? At Shattered Eezo?"

"Hell, yeah!" Jacob said with a straight face. "My pride is on the line. Also, these kids look up to me, so I have to take you down."

Oh. Right. Now the truth came out. I saw the aforementioned kids run up, eager to see the showdown. Clearly I had a part to play in this little drama. Who was I to disagree? "_You're_ going to take _me _down?" I retorted. "I don't think so."

"Well, step up, Shepard. Although it might be tough, not having your squad to carry you."

"You're on."

Jacob wasn't done with the trash talk. "No pressure, Shepard. These people already idolize you, so when you choke, it won't matter."

"You're crowding me."

"Am I? My bad." He turned around and raised his voice. "Stand back, everyone. Shepard needs extra room to make the magic happen."

I rolled my eyes. "Ready?"

"I was born ready."

"Let's do this."

Jacob and I put our credits in—yes physically inserting credits in actual slots. None of this electronic transfer crap—and the game was on.

I mentioned earlier that I spent a lot of time playing arcade games in general, and Shattered Eezo in particular. While I might've been a bit rusty, I hadn't forgotten everything.

For those of you who haven't played Shattered Eezo, it's essentially a boxing match between two mechs. You could either play against the computer or a real live opponent. Normal punches are worth three points, punches on dazed mechs are worth four and punches on mechs in a defensive posture are worth one or two points. You could also charge up a punch to break through blocks. The more opponents you beat, the higher your score. The trick is that the enemy always has full health and gets progressively harder, while you only recover part of any health lost during your last match.

After years of playing, Morgan and I had figured how to beat it. The first thing you had to do was spam the block action, which would minimize the opponent's 'normal attack'. Eventually, it would switch to a charged attack to deal extra damage. Once that happened, all you had to do was jab while the opponent was charging to interrupt the attack, then go back to blocking. The idea was to whittle the opponent's health down while minimizing any damage yourself.

"Glad none of your friends are here to see your humiliation," Jacob taunted, reminding me I had a game to play. I decided to start by ignoring the strategy I had honed in my youth and let loose with a few normal attacks. Just to feel Jacob out and see what his skill level was. I was rewarded by losing a bar of health.

"Glad none of your friends are here to see your humiliation," Jacob snorted.

"That all you got?" I shot back.

"Oh, I'm just getting started."

Me too. Enough was enough, I decided. I assumed a defensive posture and began blocking the attacks. Didn't take long before Jacob got tired of waiting and began charging up his attack. I countered with a flurry of rapid strikes that stunned his bot. Pressing the attack, I continued attacking until it was down to half health. "Are you crying yet, Jacob?"

"Dream on!"

Jacob took a page from my playbook and began blocking attacks. So I did the same. Both of us had our bots crouched down, ready to block attacks. Or, rather, waiting for the other to initiate an attack. This brought me back to the last time Morgan and I played Shattered Eezo: we both went on defence and waited for the other to blink. For thirty minutes. We probably would've still been there if it weren't for our parents.

Jacob was no Morgan. He began throwing normal punches again. I kept blocking. Normal punch. Block. Normal punch. Block. Finally, he got tired and started charging his punch again. Once again, I seized the opening and threw out a quick series of jabs. Once again, I dazed his bot.

"Come on, come on, come on!" Jacob growled as his bot stood there, helpless against my bot's assault.

"That pain you feel is me kicking your ass," I told him as I pummelled away. I watched as Jacob's bot went from three health bars to two. To one. A firm uppercut knocked its head clean off its shoulders.

"Not like this," Jacob growled. "Not like this."

The game wasn't over, though. The bot was handicapped, but it still wasn't down for the count. It finally recovered from its daze and began punching back. So I turtle up and began blocking. My bot had three health bars, after all. I could afford to wait.

Eventually, I saw my opening and went ape-shit. And that was when the fat lady sang.

My bot raised its arms in victory as Jacob's bot exploded. "Commander Shepard wins!" one of the kids cried out.

"And that's how it's done, kids," I said smugly.

"You couldn't let me win?" Jacob sighed. "Just once?"

"We could play again," I offered. "Best two out of three?"

A loud gurgle erupted before Jacob could reply. He shook his head in embarrassment. "Tell you what, Shepard. Let's grab some grub first. I'm buying."

"Sure," I shrugged.

"Then we'll have a rematch. My reputation's at stake."

"Your reputation? Seriously?"

"Absolutely. Now, what're you in the mood for? Sushi?"

"Why?" I frowned. "What've you heard?"


	9. Shepard versus the Red Dress

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 9: Shepard versus the Red Dress**

Do bad things come in threes? Scientists say they don't. Lately, I had to disagree.

Matriarch Donalia T'Dura had proposed to seal off Thessia and the Parnitha system by deploying minefields around the mass relays. Again. While an alarming number of matriarchs had expressed support for her half-cocked scheme—possibly because various intergalactic politicians and news outlets had ridiculed T'Dura's scheme and the matriarchs felt a misplaced desire for asari solidarity—enough had retained their common sense and voted against mining the mass relays.

After throwing a temper tantrum, T'Dura made a new announcement: thanks to her 'great leadership,' the Asari Republics would commence the construction of a new class of dreadnoughts. No reason was given on why the Asari Republics couldn't simply build more of the older class of dreadnoughts, though the long-winded and rambling explanation included references to the 'glorious heritage' and 'glorious prestige' of the 'glorious asari people'. There may have been something about restoring the reputation of the asari as well. It was uncertain whether this new class would be designated 'Glorious Heritage,' 'Glorious Prestige' or 'Glorious Asari,' as T'Dura kept using the terms interchangeably during her speech.

It all seemed like a harmless, albeit expensive, vanity project until a reporter asked whether the asari would abide by the Treaty of Farixen when building these new dreadnoughts. First, T'Dura dismissed this as a stupid question from a 'good-for-nothing human.' Then she expressed ignorance as to what the Treaty of Farixen was. Then she suggested that the asari would not be bound by the Treaty of Farixen at all.

For those of you not versed in intergalactic naval history, the Treaty of Farixen is a requirement for any race wanting to open an embassy on the Citadel and become an associate member of the galactic community governed by the Citadel Council. It was named after the Farixen Naval Conference, where a fixed ratio of dreadnought construction was agreed upon to limit their destructive potential. Basically, for every five dreadnoughts the turians built, the other Council races—asari, salarian and, most recently, human—were allowed three, and all other associate member races were allowed one.

How important was this treaty? Well, let's put it this way: the main gun of a dreadnought can fire a twenty-kilogram slug. After accelerating said slug to a velocity of 4025 kilometres per second, or 1.3 percent of the speed of light. That gives the slug a total kinetic energy of roughly thirty-eight kilotons of TNT, which is about two and a half times the energy of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima during World War 2. And here's the kicker: dreadnoughts can fire those slugs every two seconds.

Granted, it would not be the first time someone tried to work around the Treaty of Farixen. The Alliance had done so by building carriers. While they were technically dreadnought-sized, there was nothing in the treaty limiting the number of carriers _**that **_could be built. In fact, the idea of deploying ships that relied on fighters as their main armament was seen as something of an innovation by the other races.

It was believed that the batarians were free to build as many dreadnoughts as they wanted as they were no longer bound by the Treaty. This occurred when the Council denied their request to prevent human expansion into the Skyllian Verge, and the batarians responded by shutting down their embassy and severing diplomatic relations with the Citadel races. However, those dreadnoughts were likely destroyed when the Reapers first invaded. Certainly there were no batarian dreadnoughts seen in the joint effort to retake Earth and win the Reaper War.

The quarians had arguably violated the Treaty by upgrading all the ships in their Civilian Fleet with Thanix cannons, essentially turning them into dreadnoughts, before renewing hostilities with the geth. Their justification was that: a) some of the upgraded ships were liveships that were specifically designed for food cultivation rather than combat and b) since the Citadel Council closed down their embassy, they were no longer bound by the Treaty and could do whatever they wanted with their ships. Now that the Reaper War was over, the conflict with the geth was over and the quarians had returned to their homeworld, the Citadel was pushing for the complete disarmament of the Civilian Fleet. The discussions, thus far, were… spirited.

The point was, this was the first time anyone had suggested they could ignore the Treaty of Farixen—a _Council _treaty—while still counting themselves as a Council race. The fact that it was a highly regarded member of the asari—one of the founding members of the Citadel Council—made it even worse. The potential ramifications of this announcement were alarming, to say the least. Other races could be emboldened to disregard intergalactic law. We could see the beginning of a new naval arms race. At the very least, diplomatic relations between the asari and, well, anyone else were now a little strained.

Needless to say, this was bad.

The turians immediately filed an official complaint. The volus were next, but only because their leader used it as an excuse to launch yet another bid for a seat on the Citadel Council. The salarians gave a somewhat muted, but ultimately disapproving statement. The drell, elcor and hanar voiced their displeasure. Wrex wasn't obligated to issue an official statement, considering the krogan were not a Citadel race, but he did made a cheeky comment about how T'Dura was overcompensating for something. No comment from the batarians, geth or quarians—which wasn't necessarily surprising as they weren't Citadel races either.

As for humanity, well, Admiral Hackett made an official statement on behalf of the Alliance military. He clearly expressed his concern over why the asari needed to build new dreadnoughts at all and urged them to reconsider the idea of ignoring the Treaty of Farixen. But the human politicians were strangely mute on the subject. Possibly because they were embroiled in a controversy of their own.

Pierre Thibault, acting prime minister of the Alliance had announced that the Unity Group had been awarded a nine billion credit contract to organize disaster relief efforts on behalf of the Alliance. No one was denying that that relief was needed. The Reapers might be gone, but the galaxy had only begun to recover from the destruction and suffering they had caused. But this announcement had come out of the blue. Thibault had never given a hint that anything like this was in the works. And nine million credits wasn't exactly chump change.

Then a certain reporter started digging around, as members of the fourth estate were wont to do. Emily Wong discovered that none of the other charities who worked in disaster relief had caught wind of this contract, suggesting it had been awarded directly to the Unity Group. She discovered that Thibault had been a guest speaker at Unity Group functions for several years, stretching back to well before the Reaper War. She discovered that his husband ran an extranet podcast series for the charity. Which raised a very interesting question: was there a conflict of interest?

Three simple words. Conflict. of. Interest. Individually, they could mean anything. Together, they suggested inappropriate behaviour. Impropriety. Scandal. Corruption.

Emily also reminded her readers that this was not the first scandal Thibault was involved with. Remember how the Alliance was bailing out Hahne-Kedar to keep them out of bankruptcy? Yeah, I'm sure you do. Wanna know who was the lead negotiator for that brilliant deal? Pierre Thibault. You wanna know who was a very generous donor to his political campaign? Hahne-Kedar.

Now maybe this was an innocent set of coincidences. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Except for the fact that Thibault was suddenly and conveniently unavailable for comment.

So what's the third bit of bad news? It had to do with Hahne-Kedar. Again. Remember how they got busted for roping the Alliance into a decidedly one-sided contract, getting the Alliance to bail them out and trying to do the same thing with the krogan and turians? Remember how their stock went in the tank, the executive board got fired and the new CEO promised things would change? Well, that was before the Alliance signed a deal with Hahne-Kedar to sell weapons—the same crap weapons foisted on human soldiers for ages. Specifically, Thibault—yeah, him again—and the new CEO—the guy who said things would change—agreed to sell crap weapons. To the batarians. Because they didn't have enough reasons to hate humanity.

And here I was hoping that things were starting to turn around. Thankfully, another woman pulled through:

_Subject: Pencil me in _

_From: Miranda Lawson_

_Shepard,_

_Care for a night out? My 'consultant' job with the Alliance is finally over and I'll be taking off from the starport soon. Let's get dressed up and meet in the Silver Coast Casino. Tonight. 1800. By the roulette tables. I'll be the one in red._

Oh. Hell. Yes.

* * *

It didn't take me long to dress. Mostly because I only had so many clothes that fell in the category of 'dressing up'. I went with the outfit Miranda got me for the first time I visited the Silver Coast Casino. Same dress shirt. Same underwear. Same socks. Same steel-reinforced shoes. Same formal jacket with hidden ceramic-plate-and-woven-fibre lining. With Miranda's attention to detail, I knew she'd appreciate the gesture. Besides, it accomplished the minor miracle of making me look good.

When I entered the casino, I made a beeline for the roulette tables. I'd arrived a few minutes early, so I figured I had beaten her. Just in case, I decided to scan the area. And there. she. was.

Her dress flowed from her long, graceful neck all the way down, stopping just short of the floor—though the heels might've had something to do with that. She wore a pair of long, fingerless gloves that stretched up over her elbows. A large slit ran down the front, which might have been indecent were it not for the set of lingerie underneath that teased a tantalizing glimpse at her alabaster skin. The result was something that was modern, provocative and sexy.

And yes, it was all in red. A rich, glorious scarlet red.

The way I was feeling, I could've tackled her in a bear hug. But that probably wouldn't be appropriate. Not to mention all the unwanted attention—and security—that would draw. So I 'settled' for a kiss.

"Miranda," I beamed when I came up for air. "Welcome back."

"Shepard. It's good to be back. I missed you."

"I missed you too."

Some more kissing followed, along with a smidge of touchy-feely.

"Glad you got my e-mail," Miranda said eventually. "I thought we might try an evening out."

Miranda turned to the roulette table, entered a bet on a holographic display and put a few chips on the table. As holographic numbers flickered overhead, I found a space beside her. "Sounds like you have some time to catch your breath."

"I do. Just… not used to it. I've spent my life having some kind of schedule to follow. Having something to do. To be perfectly honest, I was feeling a bit lost. Part of me was happy to fly down to Earth and talk to the Alliance about Cerberus distribution channels."

She laughed ruefully. "It's kind of sad, really. Got to thinking we needed a break. No point in saving the galaxy if we can't enjoy it once in a while."

"It's about time you figured that out," I said.

"I thought you might say that," she replied. "I can be… severe."

Meaning she was fully aware of her well-deserved reputation for being a strict, merciless, workaholic killjoy. Amongst other things. I couldn't exactly disagree with any of that, but it seemed impolite to say so. "You're focused," I said instead. "Believe me, I understand."

The roulette wheel finally stopped. Red six, the holographic digits announced. My eyes went down to the table, where Miranda had put her chips… on black nine. "Damn," Miranda cursed softly. "I'm not very good at this. Truth is, Shepard, I'm not very good at being normal. Bit of a disaster, really."

"I'm not exactly an expert, either," I shrugged.

"True. What with that constant running. Jumping. Shooting. Setting things on fire."

"Yes, exactly," I hastily said, before she spent the rest of the night reciting the list she no doubt had compiled. "Point is, we just need a little practice."

"Any ideas?"

"Oh, I've got some ideas." Taking a step back, I wrapped my arms around Miranda and gently pulled her towards me. "Miranda: you're here, you're beautiful, and I have you all to myself. So tonight, I'm just going to be a regular guy taking his best girl out on the town."

She glanced back at me. "No space heroes or super spies?"

"Nope," I grinned. "Just bright lights, a few games and some _very _foolish choices. Agreed?"

"Agreed," she laughed. "Though I think I'm going to need more wine."

"Done." Looking around, I caught a waiter's eye. "Get this woman more wine."

A bit rude, I had to admit, but Miranda seemed to like it. "You're pretty sexy when you're pushy."

"Right back at you."

"So… what now?"

I tilted my chin towards the roulette table. "Let's spin the wheel and see what happens."

Miranda put one hand over mine and placed another bet with the other. As the wheel spun again, she leaned back against me. "The odds are against us, you know."

She was looking at the wheel, but we both knew she was talking about more than just a mere casino game.

"Maybe," I said, "but I've got a good feeling about this."

* * *

Sadly, the odds didn't really improve for us. At least, we didn't make a fortune off the roulette games. Probably because neither of us made a serious effort to beat the house. Still, we were very close to breaking even before we decided to call it quits and grab some dinner.

Miranda chose the seafood risotto. I wanted the sashimi platter but was told that they had just run out. Clearly the galaxy had found a new way to torment me. After reluctantly choosing the roast leg of lamb, it was time to find out why the Alliance wanted to speak with Miranda. As it turned out, it wasn't all about getting her in a small, dark room, shining a bright light in her eyes and interrogating her mercilessly.

"Okay, let me get this straight," I said. "Cerberus is having a manpower issue because most of their agents were killed or captured during the Reaper War. Most of the cells were dismantled when the Illusive Man made his play to take over the galaxy. And thanks to Brooks—or whatever her name was—upgrading CAT6, several of their bank accounts and supply caches have been emptied."

"Pretty much."

"I guess there had to be a silver lining somewhere. So what next?"

"Cord-Hislop Aerospace."

"The starship manufacturer that's supposedly a front for Cerberus? I mean, it can't be a coincidence that their logos looked similar." Granted, that isn't really grounds for an investigation or anything, though it would explain why TIMmy was so insistent on spreading the Cerberus brand over everything.

"They're definitely a front for Cerberus. When I was still with them, I would regularly cycle assets and shipments through Cord-Hislop. Which was the main reason why the Alliance asked for me. We spent the last several weeks going over their financial records."

"So what's next?"

"What's next is that the Alliance launches a multi-system search-and-seizure of all Cord-Hislop assets. And simultaneously arrest everyone who was complicit in aiding Cerberus."

So… progress? Did my ears deceive me, or did that actually sound like _good _news? "Nice," I approved. "If it puts the squeeze on Cerberus, that's gotta be a good thing."

"I thought you'd agree. Now what about you? What have you been up to while I was on Earth?"

"Well, let's see…"

It was at that point that our dinner arrived, so we spent a few minutes enjoying the best that the Silver Coast Casino had to offer. Then it was my turn to fill Miranda in on what she had missed.

"_Jack_ has a _pet_?" she asked incredulously. "Really?"

"Really," I confirmed. "A pet varren rescued from Thessia. His name is Eezo."

"I… I never imagined Jack as a… dog person? Varren person? Is that even a thing?"

"Guess so," I shrugged. "They really seem to love each other."

"That… nothing in her psych profile _ever _suggested this kind of behaviour."

"People change," I reminded her.

Miranda began showing this nauseous look on her face as I continued. At first I thought her risotto wasn't agreeing with her. Then I realized she was reacting to my description of Jack cooing over her 'badass biotic.' I had to agree: it did get a little nauseating near the end.

After briefly summarizing my first game at Armax Arsenal Arena, I moved onto Garrus.

"Did you ever find out more about why Garrus and Tali broke up?"

"No, though I'm not sure if it's that bad yet," I sighed. "All I know is that Tali's still not returning his calls. It doesn't mean they've called it quits."

"I can't blame her. What was Garrus thinking, asking about her… extracurricular… apps?"

"Not entirely sure," I admitted. "I wouldn't have triggered that particular land mine myself. Mind you, I wouldn't have taken his approach to flirting either."

Miranda's eyes widened as I described the train wreck of a conversation between Garrus and Colonel Fidelis. "Well," she managed at last. "That explains a lot."

"Yeah," I agreed. "He did manage to turn it around—"

"With some help from you."

"True enough. But then a fight broke out."

I quickly went over the fight, how Fidelis shut it down and the revelation she provided.

"An otherwise good idea ruined by political expediency and government incompetence," Miranda sighed. "How typical."

"Can't really disagree with you there," I had to admit. "Hopefully Fidelis can turn all those lemons into lemonade."

"One can hope. Was there anything else?"

"Yeah. Jacob got in touch."

"Well I'm glad to hear Jacob's doing well," Miranda said after I summed up that encounter, "though I don't know why he was challenging you to arcade games of all things."

"I… yeah, I dunno," I shrugged. "Guess it was more for distracting those kids he was watching."

"Speaking of, any idea when Brynn is due?"

"They passed the expected due date," I replied, recalling what Jacob had said over lunch. "Baby oughta be coming out any time now. Jacob and Brynn rented a room about three blocks from Huerta Memorial."

"Good. Now, was there anything else?"

"Well, the dessert menu looks pretty amazing but… I have to say there's someone here who looks even better."

"Oh?" Miranda favoured me with a dazzling smile. "Would you care for a… closer inspection? In private?"

Heyyoo!

* * *

As we got the bill, it occurred to me that his might be my first 'normal' date—aside from the double date we had with Ellie and Awesome a while back. Granted, I've never been a social butterfly. And the past several years were spent running from one suicidal mission straight into another, coming back from the dead (God, that's still creepy) as a cybernetic ninja zombie and fighting an eldritch race of cosmic synthetic horrors that had been wiping out galactic life on a regular basis. All of which meant I didn't really have time to have a girlfriend, much less go out and have a good time.

But now? Now I had a girlfriend. We had just gone out for dinner. We made the effort of dressing up in something formal. And to top it off, we were about to end the evening in a way that would drive the gossip rags wild. Sounded like a normal date to me.

Ellie would be so proud.

That was my thinking right up until I stepped outside and felt that telltale tingle on the back of my neck. Looking around, I thought I saw something. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Or maybe…

Maybe there were two humans—one man, one woman—who had suddenly turned around to follow us.

"My place or yours?" Miranda asked.

"My place is closer," I replied. Technically it was Anderson's place and I was just housesitting, but it was less of a mouthful to claim ownership.

After a minute or so, I decided I wasn't imagining things. "By the way," I said under my breath, "we seem to have picked up a tail. Two of them, in fact. Somehow, I don't think they're admiring how amazing you look in that dress."

"Why thank you," Miranda practically squealed. She snuggled up closer, partly as an intimate gesture, partly so she could whisper in my ear: "I take it you're referring to the two humans who were passing by the casino before abruptly turning to follow us."

"Yeah." I turned my head just far enough to spot them out of the corner of my eye. "They just stopped to browse the wares at that kiosk."

All right, I thought. Miranda and I were being followed by two people—at least—who may or may not want to do bad things to us. And I really didn't want to end this evening with another restaurant getting trashed. "Are you armed?"

"Omni-tool. And biotics, of course."

"No weapons?"

"We're supposed to be on a date," Miranda reminded me.

"True." Which was why the only thing I had was my omni-tool.

"Okay," I said aloud, "so we're being followed by a minimum of two people, whose motivations were unknown, and we have a very limited number of tools and weapons at our disposal. Right now, what we need is a place that offers more options. Where we can deal with our tails—and any friends they might have—as quietly and as discreetly as possible."

A quick visual sweep came up with an option. "There's an alleyway coming up that might suit our purposes."

"Ugh," Miranda grimaced. "It's probably filthy. Still, it would be less public."

"My thoughts exactly."

We pressed on, weaving our way between the various civvies who were out for a good time. Just like we were before picking up some unwanted followers. Gradually, the crowd began to thin out. Probably because there weren't any shops, establishments or kiosks with bright flashing lights to attract anyone.

One of those shops had, in fact, been forced to close down, judging by the boarded-up windows and the giant 'Closed for Business' sign plastered on the door. There were many such businesses that had survived the Reaper War, only to fall victim to the disastrous downturn in the economy and the sudden dearth of customers who were hard-strapped for credits. Tonight, though, I was more interested in the nearby alley. We gingerly waded through the large puddle pooling at its entrance, Miranda pursing her lips with displeasure and slipped inside.

The alley was narrower than I expected. Miranda and I could walk side by side since we were still joined at the hip, but anyone else wanting elbow room would have to walk single file. The only illumination came from the neon storm outside, which meant it was relatively dim.

"Charming," Miranda sighed.

"We won't be here long," I said. Hopefully, I silently added.

Miranda gave me a look, as if to say she too had doubts about the optimism behind my statement. She didn't have a chance to say anything else, though, as that was when our tails arrived.

"All right," the woman said. "No funny business, you hear? Hand over your wallets, credits and—shit!"

"Come again?" I asked innocently. "The dinner I had was pretty good. Top-notch quality, not too rich. So I don't think anything's coming out the other side, if you know what I mean. And do you really want me to hand that over? Not exactly sanitary."

"It's you!" the man exclaimed.

"It's me," I confirmed. "And you are… who, exactly? Bonnie and Clyde?"

"We're with CAT6. We were hired to deal with you."

That narrowed things down quite a bit. CAT6 had sent a large contingent of mercs to take me out so their client, or rather, the brains behind their client, could steal my identity. And life. Unfortunately for them, I had proven to be a little harder to deal with. Between me, my squad, and a few other allies, we'd basically wiped out all the CAT6 mercs. The only survivors were the lone merc who was tasked to take the helm of the Normandy and fly her away to who knows where… and a pair of mercs who had absconded with one of the Normandy's shuttles after trying to shoot down Joker and Steve.

"Yeah, I hate to break it to you," I said, "but your client's dead. You won't be getting paid."

"Maybe that doesn't matter," the woman spat. "Maybe we want revenge for all our friends and colleagues you killed."

"Revenge won't bring them back," I told her—and her buddy. "And the mercenary lifestyle has more than a few occupational hazards. You wanted something less dangerous, you should've picked another career. You still can, you know. Right now, all you did was follow a couple people into an alley. You can still walk away."

There was a moment, a brief moment, where I thought I might've gotten through to them.

"Fuck that," the man growled.

"Yeah. Fuck that."

Oh well. Worth a try. Time for Plan B.

Before they could do anything, I fired off a burst of plasma. My omni-tool was pointed downward, so all it really did was send a stream of fire into the ground between us. But that was enough to make the CAT6 mercs flinch and step backwards. They probably didn't hear the splashing noise as they stumbled into the puddle.

But Miranda did. And that was when she sent a sizzling jolt of energy from her omni-tool straight into the puddle, electrifying the water… and the two mercs who were in its midst.

Cognizant of the fact that I wasn't wearing any protection, I waited until they stopped jerking and flailing about before stepping in and knocking them unconscious with a flurry of blows.

Once I was sure they were down for the count, I let my head drop. "Bailey's gonna kill me," I groaned.

"Commander Bailey?"

"Yeah," I said without looking back. "We should probably report this to C-Sec. And then we'll have to hang around like good, responsible people until they show up. Then we'll have to give our statements. Probably more than once. And once Bailey finds out, he'll wonder what I did this time. All of which means we won't end this evening on the romantic note I'd hoped for."

"_Hello?"_

I frowned. That didn't sound like Miranda.

"Carina? It's Sarah."

Sarah? I finally turned around to see Miranda talking to someone—Carina, presumably—on her omni-tool.

"_And?"_

"I think it's time for you to reach out to that C-Sec friend of yours," Miranda said. "You know, that asari who may have had a liaison with a barely-legal human."

Say what now?

"_Why?"_

"CAT6 recently sent a large force in a failed attempt to eliminate Commander Shepard. Virtually all of them were killed. C-Sec took one of the survivors into custody and has been looking for the other two. By sheer coincidence, those two mercenaries just happened to try and rob me."

"_I'm assuming they were unsuccessful."_

"They're currently unconscious in an alley. It's near a swimwear store in the Silversun Strip that is closed for business."

"_Right. I'll deal with C-Sec so you can go have sex."_

Call me crazy, but I had the feeling this was prearranged.

"Thank you."

"_Does this mean we're even for Bekenstein?"_

"I'll think about it. Sarah out." Miranda decisively closed the comm channel and smiled at me. "In approximately two to three minutes, C-Sec will get an anonymous tip from a Good Samaritan about the whereabouts of these mercenaries, thereby eliminating the need for us to wait around, make a statement or otherwise spoil a wonderful and romantic evening."

"You knew this would happen?"

"If I did, I would have taken steps to have them arrested beforehand. No, I just knew a few people who were on the Citadel and owed me a favour. So I put them on standby. Just in case."

So this was just a contingency plan Miranda put together in the event that her date encountered unforeseen interruptions. Why was I not surprised. I glanced down at the two unconscious mercs and shook my head. "You know, normal people would never have to deal with anything even remotely close to this."

"Tell me about it."

I glanced at Miranda and gave her a rueful grin. "This is a crazy life, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, Shepard." A smile spread across her face, almost despite herself. "Yes, it is."


	10. Shepard versus the Challenge

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 10: Shepard versus the Challenge**

Huerta Memorial Hospital was on lockdown. I swear I had nothing to do with it.

Dalatrass Siravai had finished some trade talks on Earth and was heading back to Sur'Kesh. At least, that was the plan when things suddenly went horribly wrong. One moment, her ship was en route to the Sol relay, the next it was making a U-turn and bee-lining to the Citadel. Apparently, the dalatrass was in some kind of distress and needed medical assistance. By the time the ship docked, Siravai was unconscious.

Now this might've been nothing more than an unexpected, albeit serious, incident. Except for the fact that once Siravai had been admitted to Huerta Memorial, about a dozen members of her diplomatic staff went straight to the asari embassy, the human embassy or the turian embassy. Once there, _all of them _sought asylum. What's more, they claimed that Dalatrass Siravai wasn't suffering from a bad case of oysters. According to the staff, she'd been poisoned.

Of course, this raised a few questions. First, why didn't they go to the salarian embassy? They _were _salarian, weren't they? Second, why did they go to embassies belonging to the other Citadel Council races, as opposed to, say, the elcor or the hanar or any other Citadel associate member? Did they somehow feel unsafe at their own embassy? Third, why were they so sure it was poison as opposed to, say, a heart attack? Fourth, was it a coincidence that Siravai had been a vocal opponent of one Dalatrass Linron (at least, before her health took a sudden nosedive)?

Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. I'd like to think so. Then again, I'd had dealings with Linron in the past. Crankypants, as I liked to call her, firmly believed that developing the genophage and practically sterilizing the krogan was a _good _thing. She was so determined to keep that status quo that she would rather give Cerberus access to the salarian homeworld—specifically, the STG base housing the last fertile krogan females—and let the Reapers kill or harvest us all, rather than entertain the possibility of curing the genophage. She also tried to secretly bribe me to sabotage the genophage cure, when it looked like it might actually work. And, most recently, she had been under investigation for her actions during the Reaper War… before the independent lead investigator was replaced by an anti-krogan, pro-Crankypants toady.

Do I need to mention how bad this could be? Intergalactic relations weren't exactly as harmonious as they were when the Reapers were on the verge of successfully slaughtering or enslaving us all. The implications of an attempted assassination against a political leader left me very, very worried.

As if I didn't have enough on my mind, Alliance Prime Minister—sorry, _Acting _Prime Minister—Thibault was still getting a lot of heat for awarding the Unity Group a nine billion credit contract to handle galactic relief efforts. When news first broke out, there were some questions as to why it was given directly to the Unity Group, instead of having multiple charities bid for the contract. Then there were questions over Thibault's ties to the Unity Group, namely that he'd been a guest speaker at some of their events and his husband ran one of their extranet podcast series. That was then.

Now? Now a certain reporter of my acquaintance had uncovered more information. It seemed his sister and his mother had _also_ been guest speakers at Unity Group functions in the past. That's right: Thibault, his husband, his sister _and _his mother all had ties to Unity. What's more, Thibault's mother had been _paid _for at least one of her appearances. So it wasn't like this was a mere coincidence. This was a family thing, in all the worst ways.

Which meant it was very curious when Emily Wong found out that Thibault had _not _recused himself from any of the discussions surrounding the Unity Group and the nine billion credit contract, _despite _the fact that he had a very clear history with the charity and the whole thing screamed conflict of interest.

When asked about his family's history and the fact that he was present for all those talks, Thibault refused to answer directly. Instead, he insisted that those decisions were made in the best interest of the Alliance and the galaxy. Then he went on to imply that the reporters—and, by extension, the public—should be thanking him for thinking about all the people who were in dire need of this kind of assistance and could benefit from the contract. He also suggested that anyone who was trying to ask these kinds of awkward questions instead of praising his virtues like a sycophantic opinion columnist should be ashamed of themselves.

Emily was too professional to respond to that absurdity. But you could tell by the way she narrowed her eyes that she was going to double down and uncover more dirt. 'Cuz you knew it was there somewhere.

At this point, I really didn't want to think about the state of the galaxy. I mean, I was supposed to be on R&R, for crying out loud. I just needed something—or someone—who could keep it real. Thankfully, an e-mail had just what I was looking for:

_Subject: Got something to show you _

_From: James Vega_

_Hey, next time you're in that sweet new apartment with time to kill, give me a call. Got something I'd like to show you._

* * *

James must've have been checking his e-mail when I replied, because he showed up within the hour. I was watering the plants on the second floor, so I buzzed him in while I finished. "James," I greeted him from the railing.

"Hey, Loco," he beamed. He took a few steps in and nodded approvingly. "Have I told you what a nice place this is?"

"Probably," I chuckled.

"Might not look so nice after throwing that party you were talking about."

The party? Oh! Right! The one Joker had suggested. The one Glyph had provided discretionary funds for. The one EDI, Steve, Traynor, Liara and James had already been invited to. The one I hadn't given any thought about whatsoever. "You do realize this is Anderson's place, right? I'm just house-sitting. You wouldn't trash _Admiral Anderson's_ apartment, would you, James?"

"Me?" he asked innocently. "No. _Never_."

I rolled my eyes.

He trotted up the stairs and joined me. "Nice view," he said approvingly. "But this place? It's just so… not what I'm used to."

"Which is?" Privately, I wondered whether he meant some cramped room with just enough room for bunk beds and a few foot lockers, rather than a luxury two-story suite. Military-issue blankets instead of silk sheets.

"I grew up on the beach on the Pacific. So, you know: water, sand… real air."

"You miss it?" I guessed.

"Yeah," he sighed. "And the people."

"I get that," I said sympathetically. "It's tough being away from home."

"Yeah." He turned towards me. "How do you make it work?"

"Honestly? I grew up in places like this."

James raised an eyebrow, spread his arms and gestured around him.

"Not this," I laughed. "Though when you get dragged out to enough formal functions, you realize that not every place looks like the mess hall. No, what I meant was… I was born on a space station. I spent my childhood going from starship to space station to starship again. So things like filtered water, glass and steel walls, recycled air… that's what I grew up in. That's my normal. Hell, if my mom didn't pry the vid-games from my fingers and drag my ass planetside, I might've never seen real trees or breathe real air… 'till I enlisted, of course."

"Of course. Well, glad your mom took the time to give you a taste of Mother Nature. Most would just give you an omni-tool, sit you in front of the vid-screen, and call it a day."

"No doubt. What about you?" I asked. "Did your family make sure you got out of the house?"

"Mom did. Before she passed away."

I winced. "Sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago. But, uh… Dad took it hard. Started using red sand to cope. If it wasn't for my uncle, he might've dragged me down with him."

"Well, your uncle sounds like a good man," I tried.

"Oh, he is. Was. I dunno. Uncle Emilio promised my mom he'd look out for me, and he did. He's the one who encouraged me to enlist. I tried to see if he was okay during the war—he and my dad—but Citadel authorities couldn't contact him."

I had the feeling that there was a bit more to the story than that, but I didn't want to pry. Seemed like family was a tricky issue. Couldn't blame him: I mean, look at _my _family. "Haven't been able to reach them after the war?" I asked instead.

"Not yet."

"Look," I said, "if you're missing water and sand and real air, why don't you take a shuttle down to Earth? Take a day trip planetside. Hell, take a couple days. See if you can track your family down. We are on shore leave, after all."

"No time. N1 training starts in two days."

Oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that. It was just after Cerberus attacked the Citadel in an attempt to overthrow the Council. James had been debating whether to accept an invitation to the Interplanetary Combatives Academy—also known as 'N-School' because it offered a series of special forces training culminating in the highly coveted designation of N7. Eventually, he decided to accept.

"I was wondering what I can expect. All I know is that we'll be flying down to Rio de Janeiro."

"All right." I paused a moment to recall everything I could. "Well, it's been over a decade since I attended the Academy, so things might've changed."

"Anything's better than nothing, Loco."

"True. Okay, since it's your first time at 'the villa'—that's another informal name for the Academy—you can probably expect a variety of combat scenarios. We're talking twenty-plus hour missions that could start at any time, day or night. You'll have to fight your way through hostile terrain, manoeuvre through all sorts of obstacles, with little sleep or food."

"What kind of terrain, exactly?"

"Soldiers are expected to operate in just about any environment. The Academy knows that, so they'll transport you all over Earth so you can run scenarios in a wide variety of conditions. You'll probably get at least one urban mission and a jungle mission—it _is _based in Brazil, after all—but the order varies from year to year. When I did it, I started with an urban mission, then a jungle run, followed by a desert mission and a high-altitude mountain scenario. That's in the first week alone. The following year went Arctic, jungle, urban, underwater—again, all in the first week. So you'll never know for sure, but be prepared for anything."

"I heard I might have to lead a unit in these scenarios. Honestly… I think that's what really worries me."

Right. The last time he was in charge, it was because the Collectors had abducted the majority of civvies and soldiers on Fehl Prime—including his CO. By the time the dust settled, most of the colonists and his squad were dead.

"When I was there, the Academy had us commanding squads of rookies fresh out of Basic. Most of the N1 trainees complained that while it might have been a good test of our leadership skills, it wasn't very realistic. Normally, special ops missions would be run by teams of special ops soldiers, not a mix of elites and newbies."

"Guess the brass never planned on fighting Reapers," James said dryly.

"To be fair, no one did," I replied. "Still, they finally listened. About five or six years, they changed things so the N1 trainees would be grouped into small fire-teams. Within each fire-team, one person would be selected as team leader for each scenario. If that's still the case, you'll probably be in command, but it won't be all the time."

"Okay. That's good."

He still had doubts, I could tell. "James, they won't pass or fail you solely on whichever training mission has you in charge. The whole point is to make things as difficult as possible, then see how you fare. And it's not like you're going in this blind. You have your experiences being led by your CO on Fehl Prime and your experiences when you were in command. You've seen how Miranda operates as team leader—and Kaidan, too. And you've seen how I run things as squad leader."

"That's true."

"Take some time to compare all those different leadership styles and see what works for you. And don't worry about trying to craft some master plan."

"'Cuz no plan survives first contact with the enemy?"

"Something like that."

James took a deep breath. Guess he was really worried about doing well. Mind you, there was no shame in failing any of the 'N' courses. The fact that he was invited for advanced training with the Interplanetary Combatives Academy was a significant accolade in and of itself, one that would earn him a great deal of well-deserved respect. But the fact that he was worried showed how seriously he was taking this. All things considered, that was the right mindset to have.

"So… was there anything else you wanted to talk about? Or show me?" I added, thinking about the e-mail James had sent me.

"Oh, shit. Right." James shook his head. "I wanted to show you something, didn't I?" He walked past me and…

…

…took his shirt off?

Just as I was wondering how this turned into a Chippendales show, I saw the tattoo. Nothing fancy, really. It was a kind of arrowhead made of vertical lines, planted right between the shoulder blades. But the key item was the centrepiece, located right in the middle of the arrow: the N7 logo.

"I seem to recall some batarian giving you a tattoo in one of the refugee camps," I said. "Is that it?"

"Sure is. Meant to show you earlier, but everything went crazy. Then you were in rehab and everything and… well, better late than never. What do you think?"

"Looks good," I approved, "and you've earned it. Now the real work begins, right?"

"Exactly," he nodded. "I remember what you said before and I'm in. _Cien por ciento._"

"Glad to hear it."

"Anyway… that's it."

"That's it?" I echoed.

"Yeah. Just wanted to show you that bad boy."

Okay. So this whole thing was about James showing off his new N7 tattoo? Seemed a bit anti-climactic. Then again, James didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd get tattoos lightly. Getting this latest piece of ink might have been a commitment to himself, as was showing it to me.

"Cool," I said. "So what are your plans for the rest of the day?" I asked.

"Eh, just gonna wander around for a bit. See what the Citadel has to offer—only got to see so much during the war, you know. Then… I dunno. Maybe hit the bars, have some fun."

"That's what shore leave's all about," I said. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

We were almost at the door when something caught his eye. "What the hell? No way."

James took an abrupt left towards the guest bedroom and made a bee-line to the punching bag. "You've been holding out on me, Shepard!"

"Not really," I said. "This was here when Anderson gave me the keys, so to speak. I take it you approve."

"Oh, man. This is sweet."

That would be a yes.

"Come on! Let me just use it for a bit."

"What happened to exploring the Citadel?" I laughed.

"Eh, it's not going anywhere. So, can I? I mean, you get to do this all the time! Just let me have some fun."

"All right," I relented. "Knock yourself out."

James immediately started punching the… well, the punching bag. You should've seen the look on his face. Like a kid in a candy store. I thought about telling him that he should get out more but, hey, who am I to judge?

"Man, this is high-quality stuff!"

Okay. Maybe I could judge a little.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you how to spend your R&R," I said. "Spend it here, spend it on Earth. Try to find your family, sit back and relax. You do you. But is this _really_ how you want to spend the last couple days before you start N1? Holed up in an apartment hitting a punching bag?"

"Like I said, this is high-quality stuff," James insisted. Though I could tell he was having second thoughts.

"Come on," I urged. "The punching bag will still be here when you get back from Rio. For now, let's see what we can find."

* * *

We spent some time at Armax Arsenal Arena. I hadn't gone back since I went there with Jack—mostly because I didn't want to be fawned over like I was the last time I was there. But James was more than willing to play another game—apparently he'd spent some time there during the Reaper War and was hoping to get back on their 'top 10 highest score' list. And the arena was within walking distance.

After playing a few rounds against simulated geth opponents, we had some dinner at the Silver Coast Casino—he had burgers, I had chicken carbonara. They still hadn't gotten any fish for sashimi—or any other kind of sushi. Some kind of problem with their supplier, I was told. Personally, I thought the universe had found a new way to toy with me.

Gripes with the universe aside, the chicken carbonara was pretty good and I had no problem cleaning my plate. Just as I was about to ask whether James wanted dessert, he flagged down the waiter and whispered some instructions. "James?" I asked as the waiter walked away.

"You'll see," he said cryptically.

The waiter came back with a serving tray full of shot glasses… and a bottle of tequila. "Really, James?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he grinned. "Time to answer the question of the ages!"

"Who can win a drinking contest?"

"Damn straight!"

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever. Line 'em up, Vega."

"That's what I like to hear." James paused until the waiter unloaded his tray and left. Then he assembled the shot glasses into two rows and filled them with tequila, his hands demonstrating a familiarity borne of long practice. "Rules are simple: I take a shot, you take a shot. Hesitate? Game over."

"This shouldn't take too long," I smirked.

"Uh huh. Awesome superstar new hotness first." James picked up a shot glass and knocked it back. "Sorry-ass old and busted next."

I gamely grabbed a shot glass and emptied its contents. "Don't worry, I'll try and go easy on you."

James laughed. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."

We both had another shot. "That all you got, James?" I teased.

"Oh, I'm just getting started." He immediately emptied a third shot glass. "You know, I expected better from you."

"I'm saving my best moves for later," I replied, seeing his third shot with my own.

"'Best moves'?" he scoffed. "At least if you're drunk, you have an excuse for how you dance."

Why do people keep bringing that up, I wondered. While I tried—and failed—to find an answer to that question, James had his fourth shot. "Boom!" he cheered. "I'm on a roll!"

While he was patting himself on the back, I emptied my fourth shot. "Keep it coming, Lieutenant. I can do this all night."

"You may have to," James grinned.

"On the off chance that I forget to say this—you know, because I'm too busy taking your sorry ass down—I'm glad we had the chance to hang out before you go to the Academy."

"Me too, Loco. Now whaddaya say: you ready for round two?"

"Bring it on."

James was pouring out the next round of shots when someone shoved me. "Hey."

Turning around, I saw a batarian and a vorcha. "My friend doesn't like Alliance types," the batarian said.

"Buddy," James frowned, "we're right in the middle of something."

The batarian shoved me again. "I don't like Alliance types either." DUDE, that conversation never ends well.

"Sorry to hear that," I said.

"You better watch yourself, Alliance," the batarian snarled.

I was tempted to ask if he had a death sentence and, if so, in how many systems. Somehow, though, I didn't think he'd get the reference. "Watch myself. Got it. In the meantime, why don't you and your friend go back to your table and we'll do the same."

"I don't think so." The batarian shoved me one more time. If I hadn't braced myself, I might've found myself flat on the floor. As it was, I had to remind myself that pulling out the closest thing I had to a lightsaber might not be a good idea. The Silver Coast Casino might be many things, but a hive of scum and villainy it was not.

By that point, James had stopped pouring drinks. I think he gathered that the question of the ages had been pre-empted by these belligerent yahoos. "Rain check?" I asked.

"Yeah," he sighed.

"All right, then." I turned to the batarian and his silent vorcha buddy. "Listen, buddy. Here's how it's gonna go down…"

* * *

_Editorial Note from Dr. Liara T'Soni: Shepard found the encounter with the 'yahoos' eerily reminiscent of a scene in the 1977 vid 'Star Wars'—retroactively titled 'Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope'. After his breakdown of the scene in question, I must concede the parallels are quite striking. He then continued to analyze other scenes throughout the vid for my edification, with varying degrees of success. I am not entirely sure if I fully understand the significance of 'Han shooting first,' but I have faith that it was indeed important._


	11. Shepard versus the Hot Sauce

**Tales from the Citadel**

**Chapter 11: Shepard versus the Hot Sauce**

Well, it was official. Dalatrass Siravai had been poisoned.

Here's a quick summary in case you were too busy following the latest celebrity gossip (Aishwarya Ashland cheating on her boyfriend with a batarian!) or the hottest conspiracy theory (hanar funding a human smuggling ring so they could eat our brains!): Dalatrass Siravai had finished some trade talks on Earth. Her ship hadn't even cleared the Sol system when it turned around and hauled ass for the Citadel. Siravai was rushed to Huerta Memorial while several members of her staff sought asylum because their dalatrass had been poisoned.

The following days, those claims were supported via an official statement. Siravai had been poisoned. Specifically with a nerve agent. Dalatrass Linron—a.k.a. Dalatrass Crankypants—disputed those findings. No surprise, considering she and Linron hadn't seen eye to eye.

Additional samples were taken and sent to an independent lab. The results: Siravai's blood had significant quantities of a classified nerve agent… one that was created on the salarian homeworld of Sur'Kesh. The only known samples of that nerve agent were supposedly under lock and key on a secret STG facility dedicated to storing biological and chemical agents. Needless to say, the revelation that a salarian leader was poisoned with a salarian nerve agent caused quite a stir.

Crankypants continued to double down on denying that any poisoning could have happened. She did, however, point fingers at humanity for the 'inadequate health and safety precautions' that clearly led to the current plight of 'one of Sur'Kesh's most respected leaders.' A rather blatant attempt to redirect the blame, you'd think, but there were plenty of people willing to lap it up.

Acting Alliance Prime Minister Thibault (yes, that's a mouthful) didn't respond directly to Crankypants, other than release an official statement expressing sympathy for Dalatrass Siravai and the Alliance's best wishes for a speedy recovery. That's all he could do, considering he had enough scandals of his own to deal with.

The first was one that just would not go away. I'm talking of course about his awarding a lucrative contract to the Unity Group, despite a clear conflict of interest stemming from the various associations between his family and the charity. The latest dirt uncovered by Emily Wong showed that the Unity Group had been aggressively lobbying the Alliance for years, ever since Thibault's party rose to power… despite the fact that they had not actually registered as a lobbyist. Per the Lobbying Act, any organization that intended to influence Alliance legislation, regulation or other government decisions, actions or policies had to sign on with the Registry of Lobbyists. They could do so at any time before meeting with Alliance officials or up to a month after said meeting. But they had to register. That was the law. And yet, the Unity Group had not registered.

Unity Group founder Marcella Craigson claimed it was all a misunderstanding, that any 'chance encounters' with Alliance officials were with well-meaning volunteers who were not speaking for the Unity Group in an official capacity. A flimsy argument, even before Emily's follow-up article revealed that most of those 'chance encounters' were scheduled appointments between Craigson herself and senior Alliance politicians… including Thibault. Furthermore, after Emily publicized how the Unity Group had been lobbying for several years without registering as a lobbyist… the Unity Group conveniently (and quietly) registered as a lobbyist. Which begged the question: did the Unity Group really not know they were doing something illegal? Or did they simply think they could get away with it because they were cozy with the Alliance's political leaders? And was Thibault's contract really about helping the galaxy or really about helping his friends?

But wait, there's more, courtesy of Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani. Maybe she decided to aspire for something more than yellow journalism. Whatever the reason, she found something that was quite juicy.

It seemed that the Canadian police had raided a mansion belonging to one Sana T'Dahn. Officially, T'Dahn was a successful shipping magnate and had used her profits to buy and renovate a rather lavish property in Quebec. Unofficially, her mansion housed a secret, well-armed and illegal casino. The police seized 3.5 million credits worth of liquor and wine, twenty military-grade weapons—most of which were illegal in Citadel space—ten million credits in gambling chips and various gambling equipment. They also discovered several bedrooms that were clearly built for the use of the casino's clients… and anyone they hired for 'entertainment'. According to the police statement, the money flowing through the casino was being used to fund criminal ventures ranging from prostitution to drug trafficking.

Here's the kicker: T'Dahn had met Thibault several times at various fundraisers held after the Reaper War. She also acted as the lead negotiator for an asari delegation representing several companies on Thessia, and had personally made a donation to Thibault's last re-election campaign. All of which smacked of a classic cash-for-access scheme that gave a rich donor—and a dirty one, to boot—face time with Thibault.

And people wondered why politicians were held in such contempt.

The only upside was an e-mail from Liara. After James and I met, I asked her to try and find his relatives. Long story short: between her contacts and EDI's processing power, she managed to find his dad (the drug user), his uncle (the guy who succeeded in steering James down a better path) and his _abuela _(who everyone had mistakenly thought was dead; when it turned out she was lying in a coma as a Jane Doe). I hastily gave approval for Steve to borrow one of the Normandy's shuttles and fly James down so he could have a quick visit with his family before N1 training started. At least there was one bit of good news today.

The gentle chime reminded me that there were two things to be grateful for: Miranda and I had a date tonight (Ellie would be so proud). We were going to some hanar restaurant on the Presidium for dinner. Yeah, it sounded weird. But I never had hanar cuisine before. I was up for trying new things. And the way things were going, it was the closest I would get to sushi.

What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

"I hate pyjaks."

"I know."

"They get into everything, they poop everywhere…"

"I know."

"And the smell!"

"I know."

On some level, I knew Miranda was humouring me. And I didn't want to wear out her patience and understanding when she was undoubtedly disappointed as well. But this dinner date was going down in flames and I had to vent.

Perhaps I should explain.

Miranda and I had arranged to meet outside the hanar restaurant. As luck would have it, she got there first. When I arrived, there was a rapidly dwindling crowd outside. "Um… Miranda? What's going on?"

"The restaurant has been shut down. There's been a pyjak infestation."

"Pyjaks? Because rats are so passé?"

"I can't speak to the popularity of rats, but the manager was quite clear that they had a pyjak problem. They shredded the furniture in the dining room, tore through the pantry like a tornado and flung raw food and... feces… throughout the pantry and kitchen."

I stared at Miranda in dismay. "Is there any chance you were making that up?"

She shook her head. "I can't speak to the state of the pantry or kitchen, but the dining room does look like a war zone."

Considering Miranda's general tendency to speak literally and the fact that we had just survived a war—and thus she could speak from personal experience rather than hyperbole—I was inclined to believe her. Especially after I peered through the window and saw the dining room for myself. Miranda wasn't kidding. "Okay," I sighed. "Um… let's see…"

I got onto the extranet and started searching for nearby restaurants. "There's an asari restaurant two blocks down. Seems to have good reviews."

"Oh, I know that one," Miranda said. "They're renowned for bringing back molecular gastronomy and taking it to new heights. Every dish is a work of art."

Which meant each dish was obscenely expensive and could fit in the palm of your hand. Still, I hadn't had any food made using molecular gastronomy, asari or otherwise. "Sure," I shrugged. "Why not?"

It wound up being a 'why not,' based on the line. It stretched down a block and a half, which wasn't a good sign. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to hear anyone who hadn't booked a reservation in advance would probably have to wait two hours before sitting down, but still. _Two hours. _Really?

"Well, that's out," I said, scratching my head. "Chinese? There's one… just around the corner."

"Okay."

Once we waded through the crowd of people determined to eat asari art, we found out the Chinese restaurant was another nope. The entire restaurant was booked for a wedding reception. Bride. Groom. Family. Extended family. Friends. Do the math.

"I swear I have better luck when people are shooting at me," I muttered.

"Don't tell me you're missing the battlefield," an unexpected voice said. "You can't be _that _stir-crazy."

"Kaidan?" I turned around in surprise. "What are you doing here?" Then I looked at the bags of food he was carrying. "Better question: are you trying to feed an army?"

"Close," he said. "I was supposed to meet some members of my old unit."

"Unit?" I thought about that for a second. "Wait, are you talking about the 1st Special Operations Biotic Company?"

"That's the one," he nodded. "A dozen or so people were flying over to the Citadel. We were gonna get together, cook dinner, share stories. Unfortunately, they got recalled to the front lines so they had to bail. So here I am, with enough food to feed a platoon. What about you guys? What brings the two of you here?"

My stomach gave a non-verbal reply.

"We had dinner reservations, but the restaurant was unexpectedly shut down due to a pyjak infestation," Miranda explained for me. "We've started looking for alternative venues. So far, we've struck out."

"That sucks," Kaidan said sympathetically.

"Tell me about it," I growled.

Kaidan was about to say something, then stopped. He paused. Gave the two of us a speculative look. "This is gonna sound weird," he began.

"Never stopped you before," I pointed out. "Got something in mind?"

"Let's walk that way," he said, tilting his head towards the direction we were going before Kaidan bumped into us. "If you find a restaurant that can sit you, great."

"And if not?" I asked.

"I've got a ton of raw food and my fridge can only hold so much," he said. "If you're willing, why don't I cook dinner for you two?"

I blinked. Blinked again.

"Oh, no," I said. "Really?"

"Come on," Kaidan laughed. "It'll be fun."

* * *

"This was not what I had in mind when I asked you out on a date," I whispered to Miranda.

"I don't think any of us seriously considered the possibility of a squadmate cooking us dinner in Anderson's apartment," she whispered back.

"Stop hovering by the door and come over here," Kaidan hollered to us. "I do my best cooking with some company."

As you may have guessed, Miranda and I struck out. Every place we stopped by was full up. The host or hostess invariably told us—either apologetically or condescendingly—that we should have made a reservation and that we would likely have to wait an hour. Even then, it wasn't guaranteed. Since we could get back to Anderson's apartment and start cooking in half that time… we gave in to the inevitable and took Kaidan up on his offer.

"You want us to sit there and watch you cook?" I asked, joining him in the kitchen.

"You're not watching me cook," Kaidan chuckled. "You're helping me drink beer. Now sit your ass down."

Miranda and I sat down while Kaidan started pulling items out of his bags. "What are we having?" she asked. "A Canadian delicacy of some sort?"

Kaidan gave her an odd look. Understandable: just because he hailed from Canada didn't mean he was going to make something Canadian. Besides, I'm not sure what counts as 'Canadian' cuisine. West Coast, maybe. Canadian, not so much.

"Uh… sure," he finally said. "Exactly. "We have beef, we have bacon, we have beer. The foods of my people." He said that last part with mock seriousness.

Well, there wasn't any bacon, but considering I was looking at a couple steaks, I think could let that go. As I watched, Kaidan put some garlic on the counter, followed by thyme, bell peppers and potatoes on the counter. The last thing he grabbed was a couple bottles of beer. He tossed me a bottle, handed another to Miranda and kept one for myself. We silently popped the caps off and clinked the bottles together. "Wish me luck," Kaidan said.

"If you need luck to cook us dinner, we're screwed," I said after taking a swig.

"Screwed?" Kaidan exclaimed. "You hurt me, Shepard."

He quickly washed the veggies and began chopping them up. "Relax," he said. "It's gonna be great."

"I'm sure it will," Miranda said politely.

We let Kaidan peel and dice up the peppers and potatoes before breaking the silence. Well, I broke the silence: "So, remember how we saved the Citadel? And then—you weren't there, Kaidan—we survived a suicide mission? And then there was that goddamn Reaper War? All those close calls I've had, only to be taken out by dinner."

Kaidan gave me a mock glare.

"Can it at least be quick and painless?" I pleaded.

"Funny," he said, rolling his eyes. "You think I hauled your butt out of the fire all those times just to poison you here, now? I mean, Miranda's sitting right here. I try to pull any funny business; she'll blast me out the window."

"I will," Miranda confirmed with a straight face.

"I just took down my clone," I reminded him. "I gotta figure anything's possible." To Miranda, I added "Thanks for having my back."

"Always," Miranda nodded.

"All right," I said. "This bottle's empty."

"Why don't I get you another?" Kaidan offered, as he started grinding salt and pepper onto the steaks.

"Nah," I said. "Gotta keep my hands busy. You keep butchering the meat, Kaidan. I'm making dessert."

"Got a sweet tooth to go with that smart mouth, Shepard?"

Maybe I didn't want him to show me up in front of my girlfriend. Petty, I know. "Just trying to salvage the evening by ending things on a high note," I said instead.

By this point, I'd figured out where Anderson kept his kitchenware and how the fridge was organized. I found what I needed and got to work.

Meanwhile, the pan Kaidan put on the stove was hot enough. He added some oil, swirled it around, then tossed in several cloves of garlic. "You like to cook, Shepard?" he asked as the garlic sizzled. "Or bake?"

"Both, I guess," I said, pausing to make sure I wasn't mixing up the baking powder and baking soda—God knows I've done that too many times. "My sister taught me. Our parents worked a lot of odd shifts, so they weren't always around to make lunch or dinner. Ellie started teaching me during our first—no, second—rotation on Arcturus. Said eating cafeteria food 24/7 wasn't healthy. Can't say I'm a pro, but I get by."

"Is there anything you can't do?" Kaidan smiled.

Miranda might have said something that sounded like 'Drive'. I ignored her.

"Don't ask me to sing," I said with a straight face. "I can't carry a tune." Or dance, if the comment threads from that one stupid vid were any indication. "What about you, Kaidan? Where'd you learn to cook?"

"Classes at Jump Zero, believe it or not."

He learned to cook at the same place where he got his biotic training as a teenager? The same place where the authorities deliberately isolated the kids from their families and secretly hired turian mercs as teachers? "After everything you've said about that place, it _is _hard to believe," I said, taking out the mixer.

"Agreed," Miranda frowned. "There's a reason the Biotic Acclimation and Temperance Training program was shut down. You'd know that better than anyone."

"Well, it wasn't a picnic," Kaidan admitted. "But Vyrnnus wasn't teaching everything, thank God. Humanity might not have known how to train biotics, but we did have centuries of knowledge in the culinary arts. Good thing, too: biotics burns up a _ton _of calories. Young biotics who can't cook for themselves risk starving."

Miranda, the only other biotic in the room, nodded ruefully.

"Did you pass?" I asked, reaching around Kaidan and turning on the oven. "'Cuz you're burning the garlic."

"Roasting," he corrected. Though he hastily moved it around on the pan before adding some herbs—thyme, I think—and butter. While he let them sizzle, I started adding the eggs with the mixer. Then the milk, then the rest of the wet ingredients.

By the time I was pouring the mix into the pans, Kaidan was cooking the steaks. More importantly, the oven was ready. I slipped the chocolate cake in to bake, then started digging out plates and cutlery. Miranda helped me set the table before making her way to the wine rack. "Any requests?" she called out.

"Red meat, red wine," I shrugged. "Beyond that…"

"Scotch pairs nicely with steak," Kaidan suggested. "If you want wine, though, Cabernet Sauvignon or a Zinfandel would be a good choice."

"Cabernet Sauvignon it is," Miranda declared, taking out a bottle.

"Perfect timing," Kaidan said. "I'm just gonna let the steaks cool while I roast the veggies. Whaddya think?"

I took a look and shuddered. "Do we have any hot sauce?"

* * *

In the end, the date Miranda and I were supposed to have wound up being a dinner with the three of us. Kaidan offered to eat on his own and give us some privacy. But it seemed rude to have him eat in the corner—or worse, kick him out—after he'd gone to the trouble to cook us dinner. So we told him to stay.

Over dinner, I talked about all the shenanigans I'd gotten up to while on shore leave. Miranda briefly summarized her role in the Alliance investigation against Cord-Hislop Aerospace. Kaidan told us that he'd finally gotten in touch with his parents—they were okay and reunited, their apartment in Vancouver was trashed, but they were trying to renovate a new home in the Okanagan. Just nice, relaxing chit-chat, the kind of thing I hadn't done in far too long.

The small talk continued while I washed the dishes and Kaidan gathered his things. Then it was time to call it a night. Once I was finished, I saw Kaidan to the door.

"That was great," he said.

"Still waiting for the botulism to kick in," I said in jest.

"Hey, I thought it was pretty good," Kaidan protested.

"Just yanking your chain," I laughed. "No, it was very good. I'm impressed."

"Thank you," he said, mollified. "I'm an enigma. I've got skills."

"Uh huh."

"For example: fistfight, me and James. I'd win, right?"

"In your dreams, maybe."

"What if I fought dirty?"

"Good night, Kaidan," I laughed.

"Night, Shepard. Night, Miranda."

And then it was the two of us. "So… what now? Wanna go out? See what trouble we could get up to?"

Miranda shook her head. "Considering we'd probably come back here anyway, why don't we skip straight to the end?" Her gaze drifted upstairs… towards the bedroom.

"I like the way you think," I approved.

"I thought you might."

"Just two things first."

I took out the bottle of Serrice Ice brandy I'd been hiding for just this occasion, opened it up and poured a little—just a finger's worth. I wanted us to get comfortable, not plastered. Granted it wasn't much of a risk considering our genetics, but still.—into a pair of glasses. "To us," I toasted.

"To us."

We each took our time finishing it, savouring the taste. The moment. At last, we were finished.

"And the second?" Miranda asked.

I activated my omni-tool and accessed my playlist. The song was already cued up and ready to go. All I had to do was hit the button.

Miranda slowly smiled as Nina Simone began singing her classic rendition of 'Feeling Good.' "Perfect," she declared.


End file.
